Poem by Ellen Stone

My dull metal sweater, heart poured open
emptied shallow as a narrow puddle.
 
I packed without it, left with the slightest
jacket full of feathers. Saw the flatlands,

prairie. Knew the bluestem there would keep me 
rooted deep. How I could see a storm coming

from far off, longways into twilight. So
much time before rain came, I could get ready.

On my little porch in Kansas, I sat through
a thunderstorm to see what would happen.

Held on stubborn, shellacked and pelted.
Became a yellow thing and floated

overhead while the wind bore down and tried
to tear up all the furniture. I kept 
 
on—wanting to believe in aftermaths. 
Then settled back to earth a summer bird 

sinking into the garden. Back there singing
while the sky cleared up as if nothing 

had really happened—the bumpy street 
filled with shrapnel from the solitary elm.