Birthday Thunderstorm

The summer air is hot and heavy,
scented by the approach of a storm,
that smell of coolness in the searing heat that brings
such an aching desire for the skies to burst open like an overripe fruit
and spill its succulence everywhere.

I, impatient birthday girl,
run barefoot out onto our back lawn
throwing off restraint as I go.

The trees are dancing, the wind is gusting,
the bellying black clouds are overhead,
pregnant with promise

and then

the lightning strikes,
and I gasp and whirl
around in just enough time to see it strike,
like a snake lunging out of dry grass.

Then comes the thunder; elemental, rich, majestic,
echoing like the sound of giants moving furniture,
thrilling my soul with rejoicing
at such untameable force, that will always remain
mysterious.

So I close my eyes and throw back my head
as the rain comes
soaking me through and through,
and falling on my face,
my eyelashes, cheeks, and lips,
curved upwards in a smile.

The life-giving streams course down from heaven,
and, laughing helplessly at the wonder of it all,
I begin to dance.

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