echoing in the dark blue weight of sky,
like street lamps in the clouds,
intermittent stabs in the dark,
that shudder nerves and bristle hairs,
electric air is everywhere,
and the cat hides under the bed.
Rolling thunder, like grumbling gods,
appeased by rain and clashing sky
do skim the ceiling across my humble abode,
a light show vast in scope,
from horizon to a relenting hope,
a wave of indiscriminate jolts,
that keep us at attention.
Closer the fray,
loud its booming vocalization,
as windows rattle and floor vibrates
and none placates the power of the storm,
sibilant cracks and vibrant flashes,
play with internal lights,
and razor strikes find land.
Then the rain in intermittent drops
turns feral in a blast of torrential cleansing,
gutters full and swept away pretending
this is just any storm,
and we forlorn within its torrid reach,
beneath its sky-dom breach,
beseeched by nature’s cathartic design.
The roof bears the brunt, now hail
beats upon its beaten front,
like a thousand drummers in constant roll,
concerns that it will not hold under such affront,
but on it goes, the cat now buried in itself,
a ball of quivering fear, I console,
until this deluge relents.
Then without warning the downpour desists,
as if someone turned off the tap,
and those rumbles seem to pass,
as they echo back to say farewell, at last,
and the lights fall into distance,
resistant to believe, my cat remains a ball,
until the comfort of silence restores his faith.
I love these summer storms,
for all their bluster and threatening state,
they sate the very grime of life,
cleansing all in heart and strife
to let new days reign,
and fresh the air that blames not
the darkness consumed, by the light of the new.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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