Afterthought

As the storm arrived
I couldn't do much
Except look for a shelter
And weather it

I believe the living are afraid of the dead
The dead talk to us in metaphors and memories
And we reply them, in silent prayers to the sky
Taking forms of maple leaves floating in the air
Or the thick white smoke rising out of the chimney of the students centre at the corner

You ask if I have been safe from the storm
So far, I reply
Come along, we'll have a few quiet drinks in the garden
Once, when all of this is over