The Beauty of Thunderstorms

Ever since I was a child,
I’ve hated thunderstorms.
The flash of light,
the precursor to the beast’s cry
always made me anxious,
a waiting game until the rumble
that would shake the land;
I never did like loud noises.
I was never fearful of the dark—
warranted, of course—
to have it thrust upon me unexpectedly
due to a power outage was enough
to make me wish I could fold in on myself
and disappear along with the light.
 

I thought I would continue hating thunderstorms—
that was until I met him.
He, who ran through torrents of rain
I was sure would drown any living animal
in order to come to my aid
because he knew I hated storms.
He, who pulled me into his strong embrace,
muffled the rumbles of thunder
with the metronome of his heartbeat;
whose face, illuminated
by the flashes of lightning,
held just as much light as Zeus’s element
raging outside.
He, who didn’t flinch when the lights died,
who taught me how to track time
by counting the rise and fall of his chest;
the boy who taught me that thunderstorms
are just another way of creating togetherness—
of light and sound,
earth and sky,
darkness and illumination,
water and Earth,
and creatures,
who huddle together to weather the storm. 

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