| | I remember summer storms. We lived in a one-story ranch built on a concrete slab - no basement. The prospect of a severe storm would make my Grandmother nervous and we would often travel the short distance to her house in the city. There we would amuse ourselves. On the other hand there were plenty of storms that were weathered at home. We all knew that the place to be was the bathroom in the tub. Thankfully we never had to take refuge there. The soil was mostly clay in our subdivision and the drainage was poor. (Probably why the farmer sold it to be developed - out in the middle of the countryside) After a good storm, the ditches that ran the length of the street through every front yard would be knee deep in rain water. The grass in our yard was never very lush except in the side yard down to the ditch. There it would grow green and soft. Since my father was not fond of mowing, he would wait until the majority of the yard was ready to mow before tackling the job. The side yard grass was always much longer than the rest of the yard. It became our version of the 'slip and slide' when the storm had passed and the water was high. The sharp tang of ozone in our nostrils and the peculiar smell of wet earth would lure us outside in swimsuits. The sun would come out as would all the neighbor kids - barefoot and ready to play in the impromptu swimming holes. The storm fear dissipated with the first touch of toe to water. Forgotten was the thunder, lightening, high winds and the lurking danger of tornado. Tossed high on the wind The last remnants of autumn Herald a summer storm Leaves flip up in gusts Like skirts revealing petticoats In a paler shade of green The warmth of the ground Meets cold northern air Clouds like rams in rut collide Percussion rain pelts down Buckshot raindrops pepper the ground Parched, it drinks and petrichor releases The twisting feather flutter Of dried out leaves Carried away in black cloud Rises and falls, wheels and returns Wind chased, hurried then caught And driven this detritus and debris Dips low to meet the muddied ground Fingers form, a claw scratches the earth itch Before rising to stab the sky in howling fury Brown mulched leaves plastered Against trunks made wet black |
| | Posted 7/8/2009 6:10 AM - 35 Views - 24 eProps - 16 comments
- recommend
  - recs3
- share
- email
 - sent0
|
We get a surprising number of tornados in Vermont (the number increases with global warming) and they weather my dreams in times of stress...scary stuff. It's a wild world, for sure. Great poem....let the sun shine!