In the past week, we’ve had an earthquake. a hurricane, and yesterday, a hailstorm. Mother Nature has certainly been strutting her stuff. The hailstorm reminded me of an older poem that I’m posting this month.

THE HAILSTORM

My father and I stood
silent under the barn shelter
as cold, dark wind swarmed over
the late May heat.
He looked straight ahead
never risking the eye of God,
this tanned, still young man
who always called himself
dirt farmer, who never
spoke of crops without adding,
if we can save them.
Even before the heavy, sagging
drumbeats in the trees,
we sensed the storm,
what we’d learned through generations—
he through his father, I through him.
And my father’s eyes never veered
even with the tin, ringing
cymbals of the barn shelter.
I stood unmoving beside him,
swallowing his anger.
But within me—
an urge to rush, grab
handfuls of hailstones,
shout, See, they melt,
and hear someone,
some man, some woman,
there under the shelter or since,
answer, I know…I know.

by T.M. Johnson
Previously published in Wellspring.