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?