by D.R. James
A butterfly’s flapping over Costa Rica,
it’s sometimes considered, could initiate
the chain that leads to tornados in Toledo,
hopping and ripping the heart
from every-other quotidian home.
Or maybe its deft stretch-and-glide
could instigate the violent Mississippi’s
surprising rise beyond its subtle, stolid realm—
the dainty queen behind that vast rebellion.
So I suppose I could blame this monarch
that reigns today’s thermals—that just
licked six purple puffs in beach grass
then juked my breezy mind—
for the nicknamed waves of catastrophe
soon to sweep a sleeping Gulf,
the nightly news even proving it
via weather patterns green-screened
before the stocks and sports.
But instead I’m turning my grateful face
toward the nor’easter just breaching
the stony coast of my brain: when it
rattles shutter to sash to rafter,
I’ll unlatch the deadbolts, throw open
the windows, and ready my heart’s
musty guest bedroom in welcome.