Tag: Grant Young

Among the Storm

You build a home

among the torrents


I watch you in the deep end.

You were not born


in this storm – it hijacked

You and proliferated, raised


its children in Your lungs

to take the wind out.


A storm isn’t normally

the antithesis to wind.


A storm doesn’t normally

whitewash Tacoma, or the streets


leading from church to home

stalking Manuel Ellis


to take the wind out of his lungs.

A storm doesn’t normally


bring riots, though maybe storms should,

or maybe there shouldn’t have to be


a storm

for us to riot.


In this storm, hail cannons

down like rubber bullets


while forest fires

pepper spray the West.


A thrown water bottle

becomes a line of riot shields


charging into umbrella defenses.

The storm comes from all directions now and


my dog, my house, my street,

my 11th and Pine, my Seattle


does not sleep at night.

How can this be place for home?


You teach me about trees:

how they exchange nitrogen


among root networks,

nourishing one another.


How when danger pierces bark,

chemicals communicate hostility,


floating through the air as if

a smoke signal became pheromones.


How the sturdiest Sitka spruces

stand tall amongst forest fires


and remain alive.


We can do more than simply remain


You tell me. You reach a hand to me

and with gracious gritty grip


pull me along. You take me

to the beach and make me cake.


You tell me this storm is in all of us,

but we can take shelter


in each other.

So we build a home


in a gale-less storm

on this obsidian


edge of time.

We fashion a hull of


thick steel and a Sitka

spruce mast. People


are windless, but You puff

our canvas sails with Your stormed lungs.


We puzzle over 5000 pieces of

I love you


into a painting of a family

with a dog who’s too cute.


Together, we do more

than simply remain


in the space You created for

our home among the storm.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN