Prose poetry prompt
Forecasts
unexpectedly clear skies visiting my 91-year old mother
The usual storm, stalled from arrival to departure — gut predicted.
Heavy cloud layers of resentment, thick as butter on toast. Recriminations raining, hail-barbs the size of boulders shattering iced glass blockades erected about my heart. Jagged daggers of sheer meanness finishing me off at lightning speed even as I thundered back. Fighting for the last word till death do us within this decade part.
Rare glimpses of sun — serving not to warm me but yank my chain. Like blue skies on Saturn, an illusion worn as perpetually as my peridot ring.
This time, I wore a moonstone necklace for intuition. Rosary and reminder. Better to be Mohammed Ali than sorry. Let’s float like an African moth, sting like a murder hornet. Trench warfare as art form, tourmaline bracelet ringing my ankle — my gas mask for crossing Passchendaele’s scorched mat.
Yes, I watched the rain from the porch.
I danced in it on sidewalks and sang.
But my gut got it all wrong.
Neither of us had the energy to fight.
Was it the crystals?
Was it the good scrubbing they, I, and so many wise others gave me after I high…
