The Storm

Dan Nguyen

The wind howled with a devious laughter, 
a storm brewing in the skyline. 
Above their porch, the oak loomed tall, 
its arms heavy with years’ growth. 

Steam swirled from her cup, 
a marshmallow melting in cocoa. 
Her laughter dancing through the night 
as he told her one more story. 

Then came the snap, 
a sound like the earth breaking. 
The roots screamed in protest, 
the branches gripped the air, 
but the weight was too much to bear. 

The trunk shivered, 
then plummeted. 
A beast crashing into their world, 
splinters and leaves scattering like startled birds. 

When the dust had cleared, 
there was silence. 
No voice, no laughter, 
just the smile of the storm. 
There, a chair shattered, 
their world shattered along. 

Now, he sits alone beneath the stars, 
listening for the echoes of her joy. 
He strokes the cup she left behind, 
its strong warmth long gone. 

Some nights, he swears the wind carries her 
a whisper of her voice, 
a sigh of her laughter. 
But when he reaches out, 
there’s only the cold, 
only the empty cup 
only the empty spot on their porch.