Tornado

Fir needles like rattling bones.
The air a myth that has been told
and retold, fading from emerald to onyx.
My skeleton soft like honey, I am a bowl
at the edge of the table, waiting to be spilled.

The bold silence. Fallen water pooling over
asphalt. Fear so absolute it must be forgotten.

Heather Cadenhead graduated from Union University and is the mother of two boys, one of whom is on the autism spectrum. She writes at frayedflowers.com.

Image by U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, used under CC BY 2.0 license.