Every Friday I receive a prompt to write a poem. This week’s was to write about a storm. After the prompt came in, I went to a dinner where someone said, “She was my sky.” It seemed like a good place to find a storm. (Ten mins or so)

She Was My Sky

I watched her from my crib or
a blanket on the floor or
my highchair perch or
best of all, from her lap.
The closer to her, the warmer I was.
Except when her hazel green eyes turned brown and dull and
her dry heavy sighs meant a storm was rolling in.
Then I scurried and hid in my closet
listening for silence,
waiting for the skies to clear and the wind to move the scuds away
I read every barometric pressure change in her skin
I followed her, the last of her four children,
toddling after my north star,
chanting like a drunken pirate
up, up, up pick me up.