Before Irene

At one time I would have welcomed this rain.
Something about catharsis from the sky
seemed to promise a matching resolution in my soul.
But what is the cost in plywood of a hurricane?
And am I willing to pay the price
of a boy beneath a fallen tree
or a mother swept away, calling,
"Take care of the children,"
to a helpless husband left behind,
for a half dozen ticks of a clock that talk
of a purely temporary peace?
Rain's redemption, where it falls,
is balanced by its damages,
and is for the ground it falls on, not for me.
Shiva, make me ever mindful 
of the meaning of these storms;
grant new life and hope to this weeping world
and lay your destroyer's hand upon
the inner landscape I must renew.
Bring your cleansing force to me here inside,
and let me feel the beauty of your lightning and rainfall
in my heart's interior.

August 31 2011