You are slow in me, a catastrophe long and pure in development:

The soft suck of water off sand before the tall wave,

The hush under a green sky when the thunderheads begin to spin.

You are the still in the center of my storm,

The sight of me: show me gentle, show me dusk, show me warm.

Show me safe. In your heart I am smoothed of my edges,

Burnished instead of ragged. You touch the healed skin

Over long, old scars, and call me miraculous.