The building where we sheltered
was warm-wood wrought--
the very beams themselves
reflected firelight as sunshine
upon us. For warmth we huddled
with strangers: packed like courteous rat-young.
In fact, as I dodged inside
(shucking unworthy raincoat)
I momentarily thought lodge
transmuted to nest! Good use,
a haven, for outside leered the Storm.

The hedonist gale outside
dived through valley and vale;
it rushed round jade mountains.
(the trees, paralysis briefly broken,
danced like dervishes, hissed deviant prophesy)
That morning, sunrise exposed a spectral loch,
surfaced with misty ghosts, but
that night, the squall played Messiah;
an elemental Savior who scorned Crucifixion,
but Resurrected the torpid lake as ascending
Spray that ecstatically preaches a
Gospel of assurance to the passing rain:
“Damnation is a fleeting thing! Look to the Sky,
brothers! Sisters, Look to the Wind!
Brethren, look to the Thunderhead, for
Redemption rides the Storm!”

Unsatisfied with necromancy,
the storm was deaf to His liquid Evangelists.
He’d blinked away to the heights,
to abruptly withdraw a bolt
from the quiver of wind at his back,
and nock his cloud-bow with lightning.
His laughter shook the earth while
godfire fractured a trembling sky.
The elements were in perfect concert,
from ancient stone to ephemeral insect:
all assembled bowed in supplicance
before the sound and the fury;
the power and the tenacity;
the Unyielding Sovereignty of the Storm.

But in the midst of it all, we crept,
blind, across the muddied path, rushing
from shelter to glowing shelter. The Storm
threw back its head and roared at our weakness,
delighted by our nervous jumping. As I emerged
from my tent, He chased me untiringly
with a speed no mortal could match, and
gloated over each puddle I soaked myself in.
Just as I felt the wind and rain
begin to tear at my fleshy seams,
a warm-wood glow embraced my sight,
and I stumbled inside.

The beams of our oases embraced
hundreds of my fellows;
so close that we seemed a single,
poly-souled creature, from whom emerged
The Individuals. Men and women with
Names that bespoke an old tradition:
Sanchez.
Diana.
Falcon.
Dagger.
August.
From the many strode these Few,
and on a deep wooden floor
they Spoke. Spoke, and Their
words held Power. Spoke, and
Their words filled the lodge. Spoke,
and neither thunder nor howling wind
could drown them. Spoke! though
He raged at wall and railed ‘gainst window,
They Spoke, and silenced the Storm.

Desperately, we inhaled Their Words,
drinking them in great, messy gulps
like a monstrous infant suckling at its
tiny Mother in some Divine reversal.
Their voices filled us with life
and safety, and under the warm-wood
beams we huddled, transfixed.
As the Sacred Language filled us, we Raised
our own voices, and roared against
the tempest. Though thunder rumbled,
our Voices shook the foundations, and
Poetry was our impervious bulwark.
Against our weakness. Against the Storm.