There is a place where the storm stops and you sift the silt and rake the wreckage,
You count the damage out in torn crops and the cracked panes in the shaken frames,
You hear the rain drip its last drops in loud, "Plops," as it taps its message,
The tempest touches all from doorstops to treetops irrespective of their names,
And in the stillness when the wind drops you take stock and count your blessings,
And though you're standing there in flip flops with wet mops you see it's game,
The wind that dies but never yet stops like slowed clocks is soft confessing,
That it dares you to withstand shocks and hard knocks and stake your claim.