The Storm

I’m moving fast, looking around,
afraid—trying not to look back.
A black shadow follows close,
ready to strike my head.

I hate these situations.
Annual ordinations.
When I have to run,
to hide, to calm down.

Lightning strikes ahead,
splitting into the roots below.
I stand and pray:
please, let me stay alive.

Now I have a panic shock.
My roof goes off.