September Storm

The flickering of a neighbor's t.v.
on a shadowed wall,
3 a.m., late September,
the storm outside relentless
in its reprimand.  I tiptoe

into the children's rooms,
a mosquito motionless above
my daughter's head, my son
wheezing, restless, both
unaffected by  the
plank-flapping,  slapping
rain.  Trumpet-shaped

flowers, their color
replaced by a
deathly  translucence,
lay flattened in the
mud footpath that
runs along the side
of the house.  Scholars

may dissect such mornings,
but will never feel
the song of the storm,
a lullaby for sweet alyssums,
violas, autumn mums
and the change of season.  Staring

through a faintly misted window,
I begin to learn patience.  I
remember the children sleeping
upstairs, their steady
inhalations, exhalations
an abacus of aging,
and I wonder
what will become
of them, and of me,
when my own season
has ended.

Sheila Freeman's Questions:

1.  Is is a clumsy or smooth read?

2.  Any suggestions for line breaks?

3.  Are the images clear?

4.  Any other suggestions?