An Omen of Survival

A hard rain and a howling wind;
No more quibble
about taking the trash out.

The manicured lawn is a memory, no more
argument about the mowing.  Suddenly
we are holy, cleansed by the storm.

On this night of clearing, the inevitable loss
is an ache.  Dust in the wake of flood
makes a sliver of moon a miracle.

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