Day 8: The Thunderstorm

Poem:

The Thunderstorm

At two o’clock in the morning,

the lightning doesn’t wake us.

The evening thunder rolled in

almost gently,

a hungry sky’s rumbling belly.

But now it hits,

crashes like the demented offspring

of a bass drum and a cymbal,

enormous and cranky.

It shakes the house,

turns on seventeen toys

that whir and blink red and blue;

two parents who jump and lurch,

and instinctively mumble for coffee;

and two terrified children

with wide, wet eyes,

blue and hazel shining

while their whole heads scream.

We stampede down stairs,

footsteps muted by the overpowering

sky-roar.

Three fold onto the couch,

a boy at each end,

big feet tucked under limbs

that look a little smaller tonight.

I take the floor,

ready to leap into action

should the lightning or thunder

hide itself under a cloak,

rap at our door,

call itself Unicef or Grandma,

and try to push inside.

 

Commentary:

 

This one works to build imaginative imagery, capturing the essence of an overnight storm and the reactions it brings.  The idea of the storm as a menacing thing, a petulant beast in the sky, is one I get straight from watching the kids react to it, and I wanted to capture it in a way that was at the same time something fun.  Or at least more fun than sending the wee hours of the morning sleeping on the living room floor!