I see the wind
through a gap in the blinds,
it flickers when leaves displace light.
A jet flies low, I think
but it’s the wind, a night ocean
coming in waves.
This morning I woke to soft rain.
You warmed the bed, my back,
my side, and I was a fat rosebush
pink in the summer.
Tonight the wind shrieks
through the trees and shakes its ugly
bones outside the window.
I try to ignore it.
We are, after all, civilized:
bricks and lights, refrigerators and the like,
you know what I mean.
I mean we wear shorts in the winter,
and Doppler radar is on our side.
On the other hand, I’m shivering—
Come into this cave and hold me
until the storm is gone.
about the author
Elizabeth Cantonwine Schmidt lives and writes in Kettering, Ohio. Her poetry has been published in Flights, and featured on WYSO’s poetry program, Conrad’s Corner. She is married with four children, and works as a Librarian at Wright Memorial Public Library.