What is a storm? Xylem or phloem?

When lighting moves closer and we turn to go and

the lake says, no, don’t leave me I’m always

abandoned, I always remain on my own,

remanded, planted where nothing can grow.

The night is short and the clouds are low,

and where could I shelter? Nothing is right.

The water is crossed and recrossed with each thundering strike,

of a poem, of rifts in the fabric of time,

of words that unite, and recoil,

and sink to the bottom to sit in the soil,

and boil.

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