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Saturday, April 23, 2016

Spring Storm



Spring Storm

by Jim Wayne Miller

He comes gusting out of the house,
the screen door a thunderclap behind him. 


He moves like a black cloud
over the lawn and---stops. 


A hand in his mind grabs
a purple crayon of anger

and messes the clean sky.

He sits on the steps, his eye drawing
 a mustache on the face in the tree.

As his weather clears, 
his rage dripping away,

wisecracks and wonderment 
spring up like dandelions. 

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