clouds roll across the sky
in an overture heralding the coming of
storms, of flashes of light in a spectacle of
natural birth and suicide. thunder rips apart the
fabric of the heavens, leaving seams unsewn to rain
upon the damp earth agape. were it that sunshine was rare,
that amber light shone only through the darkness of stratocumulus
and curtains of raindrops would we beg the tempest to stay.
trees tremble in the prelude of wind knowing that they
must too bow down to the deluge. the first ripples on the
water paint labyrinths over duckweed and tadpoles, the afterbirth
of the floods, so does petrichor. that fragrant herald of life
and destruction place itself in fractals throughout the golden
air, filigree all but invisible to verse, and the poet that creates it.

it could be just a drizzle, nature watering her creation
the only electricity the excitement of the mosses and ferns
to recieve communion again. the war-drums of thunder may not
sound, only drops falling on water in a steady
percussive rhythm hypnotizing and maddening, accompanying
the wind blowing the trees in a millenia-old melody.
this poem could only be Romantic musings of the grand
memories of an antediluvian hurricane that never
occured or was witnessed, images and sounds that can
never be seen or heard, known by storms.