I love summer thunderstorms with their brazen power taking up the entire sky, scrubbing at the earth, putting us all in our place. We’ve been waking up to pummelled tree branches along the humid streets; proof of the beatings we heard the night before…and that next evening, slapping sheets of rain give way to innocent silence.
and then, there are those metaphoric storms we create within us…
curdled, roiling clouds – chaos
brewed of tortured ghosts.
leering clouds unzip
from the flat, wet earth
(glazed with pewter hail
looming tendrils yield buttered
pastel sunset peace
cup your hands to hurt-
we know in our bones, our guts,
scar tissue is strength
well-worn river stones,
monotonous and skipping,
keep me from the shore
all reminders of the cyclical shiftiness of the weather, and its distant cousin, our souls; calling us towards the warmth when sun’s stunning rays return.
couldn’t boil itself down,
couldn’t make it stick