Can storms that whirl and cranes that hang above
the street unfurl a city’s rhythmic beat?
Do winds that swirl fit coastlines like a glove?
Snow fell on West Virginia, heavy sleet
that stopped this state. Now covered in a white
iced blanket, people shiver in their homes.
A superstorm did damage, spread its blight
across a thousand miles. The metronomes
ticked terror, closed down Wall Street, bridges, schools.
The New York City Transit System ground
to a halt, Grand Central Station full of ghouls.
Streets flowed with churning water all around.
And even though the monster, Sandy, spilled,
the people keep repeating, We’ll rebuild.