The Great Tornado

She knows the winds in the circles of all that’s around her.

The funnel is as twisted as the screaming man on the wall

                 hanging in the serenity of white space,

                          crosses and orbs flying up like

                             zephyr elms.  Her face

                              breaching its anvil.

                           Her little brick house

                             pirouetting behind,

                                until her town,

                               she is totally lost,

                                until it’s her

                       and the circle is her

                 and the flood, the storm.

            She breathes its screech over

      everything it rushes and destroys.

 Can we live in the force of one wind for the whole of a life?

 Does the sun gaze down and hunger for the grounded light?