You cannot stand out in the open yard
And scream back at the thunder in the sky,
Expecting jagged lightning to go soft
Or asking rolling clouds to tell you why.
The wires crossed, the static filled the room,
A sudden surge of heat and blinding light.
Trying to read an electric current in the dark,
Only to lose all footing in the fight.
For months there was the barometric drop,
Exhaustion from the noise, the shock, the glare,
Trying to tame a tempest barehanded
And make a quiet summer out of air.
A thunderstorm is built into its nature,
Composed of pressure, voltage, wind, and rain.
Nothing can argue with the atmosphere
Or beg the thunder to hold back its pain.
On Friday the thirteenth, the threshold seals,
With salt along the sill and bolted glass.
Let jagged lightning strike the empty field,
And let the roaring overhead just pass.
Indoors, the floorboards hold a steady warmth;
The hearth-fires glow, unbothered by the gale.
Always remember hardship past the porch,
And how the fiercest winds can make things frail.
Never step out into the rain again,
Or cast a spell against the crashing sky.
Just keep the sanctuary safe and dry,
And let the storm be storms, and pass on by.
