Thunder Sound
I grew up with thunder, lightning,
with klaxon warnings to take shelter.
Reaping whirlwinds for sowing heat,
humidity, electric layers of air.
Thunder that awakened at deep dark midnight.
Thunder with sunrise veiled by wicked clouds.
Thunder in choleric March snows.
I heard thunder boom
like dropped artillery,
crack like a savage whip,
rumble like an ancient rite.
🙒🙒🙒
I never heard thunder roll until we moved to California.
It ricocheted off low mountains to playful ocean,
from stout redwoods to flaring seaside bonfires.
They said we brought thunder with us;
before we came no storm split the sky.
Disapproving powers made protest.
Angry titans warred against our plans to stay.
Far from compelling our retreat,
their strivings put us at ease—
thunder made familiar
an unknown place.
Thunder welcomed us home.
Crab Shell
I’ll dig up a cork-screw hermit crab shell.
I’ll carry delights, discoveries—
my burden of joy
in the spindly-sure spiral.
On my back, ever ready to shelter—
always able to bear.
Outside forces hold no dread for me.
Internal distractions succumb to helix-hard constraint.
The twist-tight innards of my moveable home—
packed with every bright ornament I collect;
nothing beautiful escapes my notice—
nothing attendant is ignored.
I scoop up particularities
no one seems to see.
They feed my love for this world—
small, weighty things.