WHATEVER IS The Storm That Tames Us Renée Gregorio Not the luster of ruby, but the carbon imperfection. Not the sea, but the sea's dead bounty. Not the sanctuary of cathedral, but the old woman mopping its floors. Not the grey flesh of the dying, but their far-reaching advice. Not the fury of lovemaking, but the sweet drunk sky. Not the 14,000-foot summit, but the breath finding origin. Not his death after the operation, but the hour of laughter he orchestrated before. Not the garden's yield, but each day's watering. Not the wedding parties, but the dents in the pillows their heads make. Not the stark sun at noon, but the sharp shadows. Not the parents holding on, but the child's first raucous steps. Not that it should not be, but that it is. ©1999 Renée Gregorio