When the Sky begins to dream
Tranquil air trembles,
a soft shimmer rising through the chaos
as thunder blooms like a distant memory
I’m only now remembering.
Lightning unfurls in slow, impossible arcs,
buzzing with a language older than breath—
a whisper of light tasting the edges of my skin,
tingling like a secret waking up.
Ionized molecules drift toward me,
metallic, fresh, impossibly clean,
as if the world has been rinsed
in some celestial river.
The scent vibrates through my body,
a quiet acceleration,
energy gathering in spirals,
lifting me into a place
where nature feels sentient
and I feel seen.
The storm humbles me—
not with force,
but with its strange intimacy,
its dreamlike certainty
that everything is connected
in ways I can’t quite name.
Anticipation curls with uncertainty,
a beautiful madness,
a sensory tide rising higher
than thought can follow.
Passion sharpens,
focus deepens,
power moves through me
like a benevolent phantom.
Joy becomes a luminous pulse,
a euphoric high that feels
half-spiritual, half-imagined,
as if the sky itself
has leaned down to touch me
with affection made of thunder.
And when the crash finally comes,
it doesn’t break the dream—
it completes it,
a cosmic heartbeat
echoing through my own.
Caroline foister 1/19/2026
Robert James Liguon Tempest contest
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