My mother decided
that I was thunder,
rumbling from a place
hidden in dark clouds
and booming, echoing
unseen across the sky
with my heavy nature.
She told me to find rain,
a soft caress
for my weathered skin
to mute my intensity.
To dance with a light
shower against the
setting August sun.
Instead, you are lightning.
Sharp and dangerous,
you are wild strength.
Crackling with an energy
that summons me,
brightens the sky
and lights trees on fire.
We should have been
a storm. Breathtaking.
Thunder and lightning
who bring the rain
when they clash in awe,
but neither of us
wanted to be soft.
But we did bring wind.
It whipped past our ears
with anger we held
closer than each other.
Giving nothing time
to settle before we blew it
away like scattered leaves.
We created masterpieces
in the heavens, my angels
answer to your raw power.
But I always follow,
trailing behind farther
each time you flash hot.
The rain never came.


**V. K.