Thunder and lightning, storm drain surging, could’ve
followed it all the way down
under waves where it’s quiet. Burning, billowing,
festering flames. Smoke dying down.
So that’s this feeling? Spiraling away,
wishing I could have had a different story.
Lightning, a flash, then a crack,
a spell of dark magic, saying, Let’s keep digging;
I want to meet the ground six feet under.
It takes me over. Shovel,
not just in the mud but especially.
A sacrifice to the storm; I deserve this
blood caked under the beds of my nails
where the rain can’t knock it loose. Still,
it’s there: water sliding across my skin, a hug before
the scream of earthbound fury, still holding me,
saying, I’m here, I got you. I’ll never let go.
The rain knows itself, sees what it brings, apologizes, and promises,
The thunder will get tired of hearing itself. Watch
when I shower the songbirds with mist at dawn.
Remember today and tomorrow see:
the storm will sleep.
The clouds will calm. Twirling only because they can.
The flowers of the world will bloom beneath your fingertips.
Breathing with the wind, living still.
Rain will fall,
as rain always does.
So if the storm must ever return,
sit before the window.
Watch the tears hug the glass
the way they used to hug your cheeks.
There is peace.
Poetry and photography by Hazel J. Hall. Previously submitted to Magnify Voices.