its slashing angst
can’t cut a petal,
or drill into pliant earth.
fierce like a wolverine
made of crepe,
it barks to shudder miles of glass,
never breaching a pane.

humble grass
rides its tantrum
as if ascending a ladder—
the angrier the rain
the sweeter the fulcrum.

how frustrating
to beat with impotent
hints of fists,
tattooing the streets
with lullabies—

to anguish while flowers elate.

dying slow, the storm
must look down from
its invisible crucifix
appalled—

watching its ichor
guzzled in feasts.