Counting Down the Days

June 29: An Ode to a Thunderstorm

An excellent storm, good sir,

quite superbly done indeed.

Your dark and thunderous fury

tore open the night as we huddled,

trembling in our nests,

hiding from your glinting teeth.

But come gray dawn you are still.

The very face of the air is calmed,

all tension now beaded into morning dew.

The grass is softer for your touch,

and your tears have watered the earth,

washing away the scars of battle,

healing our souls, our hearts,

leaving us rejuvenated

and ready for new growth.

I think, in secret,

that perhaps your roaring

encompasses more than just rage

It is an expression of everything:

it is one of torrential love, of grief,

of exultation, of pure passion, of power.

And indeed, we admire your confidence,

for we tiny beings are puny in our hurts.

Our messy feelings cause no such tempest,

so instead they shame us into silence.

By contrast you tear at your hair and shout

and your screams shake the earth,

leaving us in awe,

and perhaps a little bit in love.