Seperation

A siren rings out across the suburban grid and shreds the erring air.

Branches hold their breath to avoid even the slightest twitch. Still,

somewhere in the distance, but closer than initially expected, a force

that tears apart homes, chases the children. Afraid of being swallowed

by a funnel of angry gusts, they hide in the basement and cross

their arms to block the screech of the blackened freight train.

All of a sudden, the gray downward spiral is flecked

with common household items, tearing the toaster from

its spot on the kitchen countertop. The frame of the house

rips apart and hurls across the ravaged concrete.

The only thing left, a brown mat in the front,

a door opens into a collapsed pile of wood.

And even when the heaviness of the clouds

dissipates, the world outside lies soiled,

the green hue replaced with

yellow, but one that

lent warm days or

serotonin, one that

left a stain on

the memory of

what it was like

before the

storm.