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Wayang 

You have never seen a tornado before
last night in your dreams.
Hours before, you spoke with her of fears,
of the passing of time, the end of you soon coming.
Those projections of self yet to be cast,
ore pulled from walls of tragic mine,
like dancing Balinese shadow puppet,
the Wayang of the Right, the Left,
the Center keeping track holding tight
the boy holding his kite, lonely in the storm.
Behind the thin veiled curtain,
inside, they dance the drama,
intricate carved in batik and blood,
the images seen, the essence unknown,
like the smell of the wind in the dream.
Before the twister hits, watching the sight of it
move towards you, through you, 
helpless to the finality of it all.
Like the dancing selves, aimed at destruction renewal
vanquished to the choices of time.
When it hits, you awake.
it is your daughter’s birthday,
there is much that needs to be done.

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