I wrap myself in rain soaked sheets,
my skin well drenched in poet’s ink.
Words drip from fingers, lashes, hair,
although the squall line’s past, I think.
A rolling thunder echoes now.
Tempted I am, to seed the sky —
(I feel it in my skin, my bones.)
to dance a prayer against the dry.
To gauge the weather, test the air —
while rushing winds in whispered voice
make promises of darker clouds —
for instruments — I have one choice:
I’ll take my pen, write rhymes in form.
hold back the sun, bring on the storm.