tonight it is supposed to storm again.
maybe it is already, but my music masks
the patter of raindrops, and all the hint
i hear is the occasional rumble of thunder.
on tuesday i drove through a downpour
and at a red light prayed to God to be
spared from the indignity of death by
lightning in the intersection next to
7-eleven. the rain fell and the wind
blew and we thought that maybe a
hurricane had come to kansas. the
lightning lit up the sky until the wee
sma’s of the morning and my sleep
was restless. i want to be outside
now, running through the darkness
and the dampness, smelling the
dust and the rain on the air and
savouring the dispelled humidity.
my soul is no longer stormy, but
my joy longs to be unleashed in
the passion and fury of the storm.
but it is late, and dark, i am a girl,
and there are tornado watches. i
want to be in the rain right now, but
the hopeless romantic must yield
to the weatherman’s warnings. such
a pity it is, too, to waste the lovely rain.
Yes. The heavens opened wide
this week, and poured their wretched tears
upon the earth. The thunder and slap of
the rain continues to pound against
the tiles and the boards. Incessant,
eternal rain. I cannot hear my thoughts
beneath the ruckus and the tumult, let
alone the sounds of music. I dreamt last
night that my local news radio station
had developed a humorous new concept.
A reporter, based beneath a street gutter,
would provide live news and weather
updates. People gathered round the curb
with their umbrellas, grins upon their faces.
The reporter described his perspective. Today’s rainfall is
waist high. Pollution levels are irritating.
The people cheered, and laughed.
Hilarious. The phone rang. “We want you
to do tomorrow’s report”, the cheery voice proclaimed.
I accepted, but no longer was I
amused. I do not want to be out
in the rain. I want to read poetry
that lifts my heart. I want to feel the
rhythm of a verse. Thoughts ungathered
have gathered my thoughts. The violent roar,
I realize, no longer persists. Look! The rain
has slowed. It is now a gentle mist. I am comfortable.
There is an individual, somewhere, derided, who needs
an outstretched hand. Look to the street. Lift the iron
storm water grate and you will see. Your poetry
has given that person my voice.
I thank you.