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Voice of the Storm

My grandmother said, “Be still. God’s speaking through the storm,”
as she went throughout to see if lights or TV was on.

The white glare was clue to how fortissimo he will speak.
Atomic flash sent you in hiding afraid to take a peek.

He was a kettle drum, a boisterous timpani from the sky,
and with reverberation, he commanded from on high.

Angrier, angrier and deeper were the rolls,
with each one’s vibration delving finer into souls.

His bark was often fearsome, as someone had done wrong,
and oh so still you’d sit if the reprimand was strong.

Twenty minutes or thirty was the duration of the scold.
When doors and windows rattled, you knew you’d been told.

Each time he was less mad and softer were his words,
soon moving far away, leaving sun and song of birds.

After all is said and done a rainbow bright appears,
a promise that God loves us and there is no need for fears.


8/14/16

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