Dorothy, Before the Tornado
An early summer storm
blue-blacks the sky
and I look for golden whips
to crack open the middle.
I don't mind rain in my ice cream,
clouds that pink the Midwest,
the practice sirens every first
Wednesday at eleven a.m.
Even when the radar blinks and pings,
the basement is cool and forgiving.
I wait for the crackle
of rain on the roof,
pinned to the heart of the country,
bare feet sunk in wet grass.
Barbara Varanka's poems have appeared in The Twin Bill, Booth, Moon City Review, and elsewhere. She works as a business analyst and lives in Kansas City.