There was a gathering
gloom, and a sudden
sharp pressure drop-

grim gushing clouds split
with eye spiking lightning,
gut crushing thunder.

There was no calm
before the storm-
only stillness after.

Now, the blue aching
vibrance of a sparkling
jeweled morning.

In the fresh puddles
I can almost see
your reflection.

I tell myself it's the natural order,
something I can't control,
only weather…
Hi Mark, always happy to see a rain poem, even a sad one (or maybe especially a sad one!).  I wanted more, however brief, about the actual rain, the downpour.

That's all.  The rest is fine to me.
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
It reads fine to me too, nothing wrong with it, not a word.
Thanks Tim, Thanks Sun-

I revised this piece from out of the NaPM poem-a-day #26 thread, as I gave myself a bit more time to think about it.

Having witnessed and weathered the passing of five family members, I spent a long time considering my reactions/emotions, feeling as though I'd placed one foot on the other side two, or three times too many (and began to struggle to pull it back).

Viewing death from the perspective of being alive is, I must attest, as holy an experience as watching children being born: except that death carries a most certain finality. 

Please read and interpret as you like, though I will let on that the weather events described are almost entirely internal.  Sorry Tim, my personal storms can only produce so much rain...


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