Sunday Things: Morning Rain Storm

My bed, an island of Eden
a silk tent raised
a downy castle.
The storm of the world shaking
all around us
the sky arching like a rusted metal sheet
while the torrential rain rumbles
your name
trembling its syllables into my marrow.
Your arms are a portculis of protection.
Your stones were each floated into place By Merlin himself.
I take it as a compliment when you call me Nimue
say I ride the storm like it is my own broom
accuse me of being your undoing.
But I have come
not to imprison you
in tree, in cave, in arrested state,
my love, I have come
to set you free.
— Sunday Morning Rainstorm, Annette Marie Smith