Storms Will Come

Storms Will Come
By Ben Bjostad

I offer to you my outstretched armored hand
and prepare to step into the broken glass.
Everything’s spinning now, rotating, building to
escape velocity.
I’m losing this, losing everything,
and as I picture you in a playground in Washington Park,
walking through a leaf-strewn woodland,
under bridges, over playgrounds, until our lips meet
I am struck dumb, wordless, without arrows
in my quiver, to combat the forces of entropy.

Nothing lasts forever. We build as best we can,
(the storms will come),
but if the levee will break, it will break. I’ve known,
always known, the levees were weak, the river’s rage
threatening outside our citadel walls;
Under siege, I cannot fill sandbags fast enough alone
to protect the causeway spanning the miles between us.
It is the distance that is such a killing thing;
the gust front is sweeping in and it’s a losing battle,
but this storm will break. Have faith in that.
The storms will always break.
Build well your levee walls; have faith in me,
and I will fight to keep the causeway clear.

The miles mean nothing so long as I have a purpose,
the sandbags light as feathers, the winds a dragon
that I might slay for you. All I need is hope.
All I need to know is that you’re waiting for me;
we built this bridge together, a span worth fighting for.
Someday the waves can take this bridge;
you’ll rest in my arms, the storm will pass, and our love
will stand firm against all the wind and rain can do.