The house grows mid-winter dark
too early in the afternoon;
thunder crashes uncomfortably close.
The boy runs inside, returned
from a hastily ended tennis match,
hair damp with the start of the rain.
We see the flash of lightning,
watch the storm from the screen door,
leave it alone as it slackens.
Later I drowse on the sofa,
dreaming of more thunder
or perhaps it is not a dream.
This time it rumbles, further away.
I pull the blanket over my head
and close my ears against it.
Awake, I ponder dinner,
make a mental list for the store,
but the thunder begins again.
Rain that beats against the pavement
also runs into the basement
through cracks in the foundation
I pick clothes up from the floor,
sodden and heavy, dumped
from a basket someone needed.
We close the windows, south and west,
but on the north-east corner
I sit by the open window.
The rain smells fresh and cool
as it waters our new tree,
as it soaks into the ground.