Thrum

by Meg Smitherman

Where fear mixes with anticipation, and though the trees may bend in a gorgeous wind, the clouds may scud across a cerulean sky, a darkness lurks behind it all. A nightmare at the edges, its claws curving around the doorframe.

Fave

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

I’ve ascended, or crumbled to dust, and his heaving form contains the universe of me.