You won’t find Her in the thunder,

or in the foaming of a violent sea,

You won’t see Her in the hurricanes,

or the aftermath’s debris.

You won’t hear Her in the howling winds,

or the creeking of a breaking branch,

You won’t notice Her in the driving hail,

or in the drumming of an avalanche.

You’ll sense Her building slowly,

creeping like darkening clouds,

Like the anxious, humid, coming storm,

Her skies are a dense grey shroud.

You’ll feel Her cross you like a gentle breeze,

and you’ll shiver in the growing cold,

She’ll grasp you when you least expect,

but you’ll ignore Her controlling hold.

You’ll meet Her in your anxious thoughts,

small drops that feed the flood,

But unlike the sharp crash of a tsunami

She’s a constant, ominous thud.

She’s not the raging roaring storm,

which makes you fear and shout,

She’s the slyly slinking deluge

of subtle, stirring Doubt.