by Gideon Burton
White bullets rain from angry clouds whose grays
give way to frozen earthbound drops of rain.
No cousin to the softer flake, its ways
are sudden, shearing, aiming well for pain.
Observe their frantic dance upon the grass,
as though the pellets landed in a rage
that they had pierced no steel nor broken glass.
Each dart a devil, earning Satan’s wage;
the petals of petunias shred and tear,
and all those cars now pocked with tiny dents,
and people bruised who do not denim wear,
and even pharaoh softens and repents.
A storm of hail, the heavens drop the sky;
With little, icy jaws our flesh can die.
Photo: flickr - peppergrass