Thunder
All day the rain
suspended, does not touch
earth or plant — rises as
steam into thin gray air —
brush strokes on water-color paper
cannot wait to fall.
I pour tea, the leaves swell,
release the fragrance
and the taste of sun baked straw,
conjuring the first,
the testing first drops
of monsoon on chaparral.
Evening wine relaxes as white
light fills bags far off
like a toy that glows briefly
when you shake it —
clouds lit like lanterns
in the Japanese garden.
Thunder unzips the clouds,
electrifies the space between
earth and sky, releases
light and rumbles,
puncturing the tube of night,
senses feast on returning rain.
© 2007 Richard Sidy