Hurricane Andrew (a recurring dream)

You swing by unannounced, holding a bouquet

of barometric pressure.

You’re an oasis of calm when you’re not a micro-burst, blamed for air disasters

during flights of fancy.

You’re a force of nature, messing up my lipstick

with monsoon kisses.

You say, “I’ve wanted to do that since Hurricane Andrew.”

It ends there.

Daylight dissolves my castle in the air. Today the forecast calls

for acid tears, at times torrential, and a mind in fog.

But the illness of consciousness

is an a-ha moment.

After years of dead air

and cumulus dreaming, I’m just an afterthought--- an aberrant blip,

then back to normal.

But you, lovely man with surfer hair

and island eyes, you remain a Category 5, a meteorological head honcho, bringing gusts of emotion,

circuits interrupted.

Night again. Off to another place. Embedded in the distance, the Seychelles, and you--- a pinprick of disastrous potential, increasing strength in the distance

before veering course.