After the Storm (for Kyp)
You wouldn't believe the storm we had yesterday.
Scudding clouds turned ashen
and were then consumed
by great pillars of roiling indigo --
angry behemoths of the sky.
The sea, mirror calm at noon,
caught the wind's frenzy.
Aquamarine glace topped with white frills
gave way to a cauldron
throwing up what detritus,
what memory of storms past?
By evening the wind had calmed.
But the clouds, bruised and bleeding,
leached their pain
into the sky of Mon Calamari.
We fell asleep with the ocean
still heaving, retching
And the sea gods were weeping.
This morning the sun woke us early.
No grey nimbus edged
with gore like raw meat
clouded its perspective.
Its face beamed up at us from the ocean
and nothing was hidden by choppy waves.
No busy breeze ruffled the polished green.
"Storm's over," someone said.
"It's amazing -- the power of nature."
Because it's true.
But I know more. I know
there's much that is hidden,
beneath the innocent sheen of the ocean,
beyond the simple geometry of the horizon.
If I concentrated hard enough, I think I could see
the last vestiges of wounded sky
in the corner of my vision. Nature
marking its territory, reminding us
it thinks in cycles. It can ravage and raze,
and then start again
But I can't.
Even connected to nature through the Force
I can't wipe the slate clean. My memories
are like this ocean, are like this morning-after sky.
My storm is like this one,
always on the periphery. Always
capable of making another sweep --
sweeping like a broom,
and yet not leaving me clean.
flotsam and jetsam
in my soul.
If I could see further into the ether
beyond this morning dome of sunlight and peace,
could I see Carida? And would
I see it with telescope eyes?
Carida as it was long
before the storm.
How far must I go
to preserve that image?
A lifetime in light years.
A lifetime expended trying
to redress the balance.
by a storm.
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