There’s something powerful about a storm -
Transformative and destructive and cleansing.
Like a lover that kisses in passion’s throes -
All lips and teeth and bruises.
It’s beautiful in its orchestrated chaos -
Nature’s screaming catharsis.

There’s something powerful about the silence
That settles after the storm has left;
The petrichor that smells like a balm -
A tender touch, apologizing and soothing;
The calm stillness that descends and frets
Over the pretty things that stayed behind,
Petals dripping.

There’s something brave about the land after,
These survivors turning chaos into blooms,
Saying, “See us? Aren’t we the strong?
For in our delicacy, our tenderness,
Do we not grow from thunder?”

I am learning to love the me I am now
In the aftermath of you.
Your bruises have faded and I bloom;
I am learning there is something powerful
About my own petrichor,
About my own defiant petals dripping.

You were powerful, but transient.
Now, I am the pretty thing that stays and survives-
Firm and rooted and beautiful,
Taking every powerful and painful storm,
And turning lightning into art.