A Spring Storm
The boil of the spring sky,
now charcoal grey
and laced with flashing threads of electric-blue,
fulfills the prophesy of a red-sky morning.
Rumbles roll in from the southwest
while the leaves on the grandfather Osage orange
freeze in terrible anticipation.
Stillness is so palpable now
that the laying hens have scurried off
to roost in the barn, hunkered and fluffed.
As if a flipped switch,
a wind from the west nearly dripping with moisture
delivers the familiar smell of rain.
Tall pin oak, sentinel to our north,
stands undaunted by the now blustery wind
as its branches sway as if conducting a waltz,
playing with the oncoming storm.
Bushes, tall grass, and forbs of less sturdier stock
battle to not be broken,
but only bend as the cell moves over the farm
and the first drops smack audibly on the back patio.
Thunder claps overhead as the sky cracks open
rending a fissure in the heavens
that issues its downpour with flashing light.
Metal barn roof retorts its dissonance.
Rain beats down hard;
peonies are battered, flattened, blossoms broken
before they can be cut for memories of war heroes.
Water puddles in the compacted depressions of the gravel drive.
The storm both awful and welcome,
nourishes creation in its Divine design.
Fertile soil soaks in the water
feeding a neighborhood of invisible life.
Not far away, tilled fields gone compacted
force the rain to run off carrying away its toll.
Blacktop glistens a swirl of diluted motor oil and then is washed away.
Slanted, the rain torrents from on high
cleansing a dusty farmstead here below
with its baptism of freshness.
Dark clouds turn to grey and then part
revealing rays spotlighting the Earth.
More vibrant now, the landscape’s colors
reveal the palette of the Master Artist.
Is this akin to Eden, then?
Is the promise of the bow
accompanied by a window of what was lost
and what is to gain?
As the land gleams one can almost forget its curse
and worship in thankfulness for such a gift.