In Florida sometimes it rains so hard
that you believe that it can't possibly stop,
that it will just rain and rain forever.
Sometimes I'd wake to a storm late at night,
and I'd sit out on the porch.
You could smell the lightning, and the coolness of the storm would
make your hair stand;
I'd feel so alive.
Some nights I'd go out, and my father
would be sitting on the porch already.
Lost in the storm
or maybe
called to it.
We wouldn't talk,
but we'd be lost together
in the rain and thunder.
Sometimes I wonder what of him
is left in me.
I am not sure
if I am more afraid of there being
very little
or of there being a great deal,
but when it rains
I think about him on that porch;