Storms

Storms

The storms are the cryings of heaven,
The sorrow that comes with the rain;
The sky wears the clouds in her mourning,
As thunder is voicing her pain.

Sometime, far in the past, it must be,
The Earth from the sky's arms was ripped;
And in her grief she hurls her lightnings,
As now she of solace is stripped.

But as her futile weeping abates,
And gardens in her pure tears grow,
The clouds crack apart with the sunlight--
And the sky smiles in a rainbow.


--1998