Intangible Air

May 16 2011

The funnel cloud

touched down outside our house,

hesitating

gaining strength.

I could feel the twister

sucking me in.

I turned

and without a thought, quickly locked the door.

Stupid, I know.

Later

when there was breathless talk

of trees

impaled by straws,

whole houses

lifted off their foundations

deposited blocks away,

the fine china vase

that was all that remained

amidst splinters, and broken glass,

I thought more

about random fate

the illusion of safety.

Of empty space

that only seems that way.

Because we live out our lives

divided by air,

slipping through

as if nothing

had come between.

A cooling breeze
unseen.

Blue sky
in all directions.

Sunsets

in every shade of red.

Forgetting

that actual space is a vacuum,

frozen, black.

Like the space in between

that reveals the truth,
the silences, and things unseen.

In the awkward pause

in a conversation.

In the ungodly wait

for luck to change.

In the seconds lost

between impact

and the gun going off.

Who knew

intangible air

could pack such awful power.

My jaw dropped

looking out the plate glass window

at the roaring cloud

black with debris.

Like a swaggering strongman,

top-heavy, muscle-bound

tottering on smallish feet.

And then moved on,

took the neighbour’s house

cut a swathe through the streets.

And left me standing

behind my door

firmly locked,

as the pressure dropped

a blood vessel popped in my eye.

Power lost,

the street

unrecognizable.

And in its wake

unearthly silence,

filled by the sound of air.
My rapid shallow breathing.