One more round with the tempest.
She stands,
arms outstretched
in a daring embrace,
as she locks gaze with the eye of the storm.
Energy jitters up her spine,
and her tongue is dry.
She’s danced this whirl wind before.
Spun out over and over,
leaving breathless and dizzy,
that’s if she even leaves at all.
The tempest calls her name,
blowing temptingly in her ears.
Drawing her in just a bit.
One foot forward,
without conscious thought,
she’s already in forward motion,
Pulled in by the deceptive calm.
Still the weathered shawl of foreboding
settles on her shoulders,
and her skin pinpricks with that quiet
un-nameable sense,
that something is just out of step here.
She’s been around this tempest before,
this isn’t her first spin,
and lately she’s tired
of letting herself be reeled back in.
Emotionally battered,
mind windswept,
she’s intimately familiar
with the post-storm landscape.
The tempest howls,
the wind buffets at her mind,
the noise is reaching crescendo.
She turns inwards to the quiet within.
And asks a single question.
The answer makes steel rods of her legs
and she is at a stand still.
The question?
Is this, what you want, for your life?
Lightning fizzles
from within the tempest,
aiming at her stock still legs.
There is pain and tingling,
and the metal taste of hot electricity.
As the bolt hits at where she is grounded.
Is this what you want for your life?
Honestly,
the answer is so quiet,
it’s hard to hear it
beneath the roar of the storm.
Still it matters not,
because the answer becomes her vision.
She feels it right in the gaps.
She unstormably knows the answer
in every fiber of her.
She is steady as the tempest rolls over.
It flails and roars,
wails and hails.
Steadily drags at her core.
It comes with dark
and thunder and shuddering.
Shaky teeth,
and the shivering.
The storm is a mighty thing.
The knowing within is mightier still,
and she does not let the storm in.
She draws deep from within herself,
The strength to weather it.
At moments her legs falter,
and at times she is almost carried away
by the force of the storm,
still the unstormable knowing is her steadying.
The storm does its worst.
The knowing is unstormable.
The tempest passes.
She stands, still.
Her arms outstretched in an open embrace.
The storm has subsided.
And faintly in the post-storm ozone
she hears a new question.
What do you want for your life?
Fine Words Weave 
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