Storming


There’s a delicious storm outside.

the sky is red
the rain falls in torrents
and the wind comes in gusts against the window panes.

if only storms at this hour meant

you could stay up to watch them
forehead pressed against cool glass
untamed rivulets separated from your fingertips by centimeters

when that becomes temptation too much
perhaps even go outside for the full taste
being in the heart of magnificence
feeling pelting drops of water on your skin and in your hair and eyes
getting soaked and chilled to the bone

and not go to work tomorrow.

Instead, I shut my windows tight
so that nothing gets wet.
close my curtains
so I can’t see the lightning.
The thunder is muffled and far away.

and be thankful, I suppose, I can shut out the storm
turn out the lights
snuggle under the covers
warm, dry and oblivious in my modern cave
and try to go to sleep.