When the sky leans close
When the Sky Leans Close
The air quivers,
a soft shiver slipping across my skin
as if the storm is exhaling
right beside me.
Thunder swells in the distance,
a slow, resonant hunger,
calling through the dark
with a voice that feels
too intimate for weather.
Lightning unfurls like a touch
that hasn’t quite touched—
a bright, trembling nearness
that makes my breath catch
before I know why.
Ionized air gathers around me,
metallic and clean,
a taste that feels like anticipation
held on the tongue.
The vibration climbs inward,
curling through bone and breath,
a rising warmth that feels
almost like being wanted
by something vast and unseen.
Nature presses closer,
not with force
but with a kind of deliberate curiosity,
as if the sky is studying
the shape of my pulse.
Uncertainty sharpens into thrill,
a beautiful tension
that hums beneath the ribs,
pulling me toward the storm
as though we share
a secret frequency.
Joy blooms hot and bright,
a euphoric ache,
a spiritual sweetness
that feels like being touched
by something made of light.
And when the thunder finally breaks,
the sound rolls through me
like a slow, consuming embrace—
not violent,
not gentle,
just inevitable,
as if the sky and I
have been moving toward this moment
for lifetimes.
Caroline Louise Foister 1/19/2026
Robert James Liguon
Tempest contest
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