the siren sounds and the world turns to dust <br />the trees spin about like little brown tops <br />while all the leaves run frantically away <br />and the people yell, hide, hide, hide <br /> <br />it’s tornado season, time for those pictures <br />of staircases to heaven, where no one wins <br />and it will be written that it’s impossible to win <br />and I sit here on the stoop, count the tumbleweeds <br /> <br />and all that matters is when the dust settles <br />and they look down; see a body covered in sand <br />clutching a tumbleweed with a smile on his face <br />they will shake their heads, mumble in their safe talk <br /> <br />the winds are here; time to sign the will, lock up <br />the treasures and bury them and the key, time <br />to say goodbye, say hello, say anything while <br />my only sight becomes the shade of sand<br /><br />Ben Paynter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tornado-season/
