I stand under the trailing edge of the storm
As the last of the raindrops fall, gently, as an afterthought
Not so before the dawn, when rain charged down
As though responding to an urgent cry

Towards the east, clouds continue to roil, coil
Lashing lash out with their lightning bolt webs
Peeks of blue in the west, sky blue, as we say
Beckoning

The direction I choose determines my fate
Dark and dangerous or bright and promising
Either way, I know things aren’t always as they seem
I cannot tell you how many times I wanted to follow the clouds

Storm’s Trailing Edge