The storm lay down,
Spread its gray across the plain,
Trees struggling in darkness
Lightening flamed.

The wind forced itself, unwanted,
Up against the glass,
Till it fled in bright pieces
Shimmer, tinkle, CRASH!

Dark spidered in
And the curtains took flight,
Probed with a passion
They did not requite,
Their filmy flesh frantic
At the cold touch of night.

The wind threw the roses,
She moved her chair,
Tense but not frightened
At what was not there.
Then He sauntered in
And sharpened the air.

From crystal to carpet
A rope of red wine,
As Death watched entranced
Each drip in slowed time.
Red patterns, red roses,
Combined, intertwined.

Broken leaves hurried
To knock on the door.
As wind herded red ripples
Across marble floors
Down the white staircase
Toward the storm's growing roar.

He stalks softly,
Moving toward the sheen
Of skin like summer clouds
Skimming hills of green,
But graying at a glance
Of the face unseen.