image of a modern operating room-from dreamstime.com
poem submitted to "Ceraunophilia" poetry contest, Craig Cornish, sponsor, June 30, 2026
Thunder found me in a waiting room, the word surgery rumbling through my chest like a sky deciding to split open. Lightning flickered in the doctor’s eyes—not danger, but direction~ a sudden brightness showing me the path I didn’t want but needed. Storms kept arriving after that: a six-month tempest of physical therapy, each session a thunderclap shaking loose the ache I carried, each stretch a bolt of lightning showing me strength I didn’t know was still alive beneath the pain. There was wonder in the surgery itself—a of skill gathering around me, the surgeon’s hands bright as lightning, cutting not to harm but to open a path back into my own body. There was wonder in the long months after~ physical therapy rose like thunder, steady and rhythmic, reshaping what pain had claimed. Every medical hand that guided me became a spark in the dark~ proof that even the fiercest storms carry their own quiet brilliance. I used to think thunder meant run, meant hide, meant brace for the worst. But lightning taught me that fear is only the first flash, and wonder is the echo that follows.
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