Thirteen Tornadoes

by EMILY PATTERSON

touched down that winter. 
Branches and barn doors snapped—
decades of pine trees torn to the root. 

We watched power lines 
make double Dutch loops as hail 
pricked the panes like gravel. Later, 

sleeping bags on the concrete floor, 
we heard the siren’s wail beneath wind, 
counted lightning in glass blocks. 

After all this, March was an upright 
miracle—standing under pink-white star 
magnolias, our daughter mimicking 

the blooms with small hands. 
All movement seemed to soften, briefly: 
daffodils bending their bodies 

to the sidewalk, cherry blossom brides 
shivering like visible music. I wondered then 
how many times I have tried 

to hold off loss. How many times 
I have dreamed like a mother—swallowing 
clouds, cupping storms in her palms. 

Willing stillness into being 
even as the walls hum.