It’s spring-time in Oklahoma, which means storms that can become quite severe. I awoke this morning to one of the most eerie experiences of constant crashing thunder and a sky that would not stop flashing, yet there was no rain. The following lines tumbled into my head and I, as Coleridge recommended, recollected them in tranquility.
The crack of the whip, and crash:
the rolling, tumbling of cosmic bowling pins;
the rumbling growl of giants;
the war between Chronos and his sons,
As the dark room is lit by the lightning flashes,
Silent save for the war cries,
and birds chirping because it is morning.
Awoken out of a dream about a girl in a faraway country,
who, like Sheherazad, would use stories for her escape,
who, like any dream, is inaccurate,
who, like any child, is interrupted.
It incites fear in children, shortened breath in adults,
watching warily, wondering how this would affect their morning commute.
They breathe a sigh of relief when the rain begins,
hissing in a whisper to calm mortal fears,
Standing in a small white space waiting for the black,
the dark that is inevitable;
Feeling redundant: water inside, water outside,
sopping wet hair either way.
Cringing at the dragon on the other side of the wall,
but without it
you might not have heard the