The sky rumbles.
The smell of rain
comes through
as it drops ten degrees.
A wall of droplets
covers the open
greenhouse,
just after the caladiums
and the English ivy,
posted nicely
on symmetrical tables.
The wind dances
with the tall trees.
I can barely hear myself think
or talk
God is angry today.
Lightning strikes.
Arturo,
this 5’6” Hispanic old man,
acts as if he’s scared.
“Ay ay ay,” he says,
as he looks at me laughing.
We all sit,
waiting
for the sudden rage
to stop.
The roof
becomes a drumline,
each beat heavier
than the last.
Arturo crosses himself.
A silence blooms
between thunderclaps,
and in it,
I catch myself wondering
about the things
we don’t speak of,
how laughter
can be a kind of prayer.
I wish for coffee,
as if warmth
might steady the world.
The rain doesn’t ask
for permission to soften.
It just does.