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.
