The Tornado By Irene Latham

The story comes grumbling
over the hill. It tumbles
hailstones and cracks tree-trunks.
It craves front-page news,

so it musters all speed
and muscle. It tears across
Main Street, steals shingles
and un-parks cars.

It whirls, whistles
screams and teems with twists
no one sees coming.
We huddle, hunch

brace ourselves for the end.
When sunshine arrives,
we unfold, emerge.
Our words echo

and soothe as we join
hands with our neighbors.
Together
we sift through rubble

to shape a new story.
It rises like hallelujah!
as a goldfinch gathers
thistle to rebuild its nest.