How is it that a storm can creep so gently in, it goes unnoticed until, carefully, shyly, it lets peal a soft roll of thunder, a low, rumbling purr that speaks less of tempest and more of reassurance?
How is it that the strobe of light, playing across the windows, shattering and scattering fragments from rain-bedecked leaves, puddles, crystal-beaded grass, is unseen until the storm flickers its well-established presence once, twice, signaling an invitation to come out, to dance?
How is it that the rain holds back its hushing sigh, its caress, its kiss, until the clouds have settled in place, great gray sheets of batting unrolled across the sky, liquid silver falling sweetly down, a benediction, an embrace much longed for, a cleansing of the spirit even as it is a nourishing of the earth, the heart?
The thunder rolls, and the rain falls, and I am in it and of it...and it is good.
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1 comment:
This is the Kyddryn I remember; this rich, deeply charged writing.
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