So... here's a poem:
The clouds their backs together laid,
The north begun to push,
The forests galloped till they fell,
The lightning skipped like mice;
The thunder crumbled like a stuff—
How good to be safe in tombs,
Where nature’s temper cannot reach,
Nor vengeance ever comes!
I know it's morbid. It's Dickinson, it's bound to be, but there has been some severe weather this week, so... um, yeah.