To the Storms Without

When I was young

and the summer sky would

bristle with deep velvet clouds,

my mom would wrap herself

in a blanket as heavy

as the coming storms

and sit on our cold concrete

porch, waiting, eager eyes alight

with the electric hum of the

promising night.

I’d go to her then,

she’d tuck me under

her strong and fragile wing

and together

we’d watch as the first drops

of warm rain fell to the cold ground,

and together

we’d feel the air thicken

and come alive on our skin,

and together

we’d listen as the low distant

thunder drummed its way in,

and together—

I was young, then,

and watched the clouds

swarm and mellow

and shiver and settle

in the shadow of her eyes.

I watched her come alive within

as the storms did without,

watched as the wrinkles

around her eyes

softened into the wind

and the night.

I'm older now, and whenever the sky

sheds its blues for grays,

I grab my blanket,

just like Mom did,

I sit on my own cold concrete porch

beneath the silver wings

of the whispering storms,

tilt my chin up to the darkness

and let the warmth of the thrumming air

wash over me,

rock me in its embrace

until my blue nerves steel

and I feel my soul knuckle open

at the seams,

the beating of the rain

soothing my restless mind

with the hymns of the

pouring heavens.