Returning to thoughts of moist earth,
the thunderstorm has come and went,
Its smell hinted before the first poem I wrote
And now here, composing the last poem for this day,
I write of the puddles it left outside my window.
I write for the heavy boughs of drenched leaves,
a deeper green awakened by the adorning droplets of water.
I write of the daybreak, still blue and grey,
cloaking every familiar shape I can detect,
Everything that stands outside is wet,
cool, dripping, awaiting the rise of the sun.
For a storm did come,
and it sloshed its thunder across 24 pages,
Drenching each hour with romantic saturation,
And like the nature outside my window
My mind is wet,
cool, dripping in blotches of ink, awaiting the rise of the sun.
I write for the circular pools of sky scattered across the ground,
Crystal clear rainwaters reflecting the morning clouds,
That when angling my sight just right, they only refract emitting morning light,
And so I see streaks of silver waterlight shining across the ground.
And in my head there just might,
catch shimmer a few ounces of streaking light,
enough to capture an idea worthy enough to write,
And appreciate the storm that was here.