A Peace Passing Through

Once while spending the night

on the farm as a young boy,

the winter weather

took a turn for the worse.

The winds began to rage and howl,

the rumblings of thunder

and the flashes of lightning

filled the air.

A deafening roar

occupied the room as

a torrential downpour

splattered upon the tin roof.

The room was pitch black,

except for the light

flashing through the windows

from the bolts of lightning,

or the ember glow

of lightered pine

exposed by the open door

of the aged pot belly stove.

A slight chill hung in the air.

But buried beneath the weight

of granny's quilted blanket

of many colors,

I felt warm and safe

and drifted fast to sleep.

I had no longer closed my eyes

when granny called us to breakfast.

The smell of eggs and bacon in the air

lured my cousin and I to the kitchen table

without any lollygagging

under the warmth of the covers.

The storm had passed

sometime in the night,

and the sun was brightly shining.

After a good hearty breakfast

we headed outside

for a rare chore-free day

of fun and adventure.

Every once in a while

when caught by the rain

under a tin roof somewhere,

I think about that

night on the farm.

Though a storm

was raging overhead,

there was a peace passing through

under the tin roof

of the farmhouse.