You sweep in
like a massive broom
bent on cleaning:

Poking under the bed,
you raise the dust
of a thousand years 
on the stong back
of a lightning bolt.
You raise your voice
in a cannonade
of thunder and
shake the sheets of
Earth with wind and rain.

You tremble the rugs,
beating them with hail
until they sparkle.
No corner of my room
will escape the
careful attention
to detail:

all will be spotless
when you are through.

And when the air clears,
you rainbow hope
against the sky
and in my eyes.

The air smells sweet.

Renewed. 

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (10/29)