"What Happens Regardless" (Draft 1)

Dear Justine,
I don't really need comments on this draft specifically--I just wanted to put up the first draft of this poem for the sake of posterity. If there are certain areas that you favor in this draft over the second draft, please let me know. Otherwise, this is just here to document the progression in revision. Also, this poem had not been titled when I wrote this draft, but I'm giving it the title that I gave my later draft.


In a hurricane the roof is first to go,
lifting up and away like a sudden bright idea,
tremulous moment of inspiration.
The wind has itched its way under the eaves,
And soon the mirrors will be sand in the air.
Still, the brewing
The storm cannot help its terrible beauty.
As when my mother walks through the rose garden,
The noon lighting behind each petal.
The softness of her body hardens in old age,
bones erupting from their stations like children
restless from a long drive.
Someone asks her to move so the light
may better fall on the roses, and she does.
Afterwards, my father shows her the pictures:
Cajun Moon, Maiden’s Blush, Princess of Wales.
Aren’t they beautiful, he asks.
And what can she say? What else can she do, besides
Look straight at each vein on the petals and say,
Yes, yes they are beautiful.