On the Edge of Gathering Clouds

I’m that quiet breath before thunder,

the long pause while the sky holds its song-

sap rising, clouds stitching shade to sunlight.

Under my thin olive-green limbs,

a heart-sized patch of blue opens,

a wordless window cut into the day.

Light pours in, and the mind can’t help but wonder:

Will brightness keep the lead, or will the rumble take over?

Crape-myrtles raise their red and ivory torches,

petals flickering like tiny, eager omens.

Each blossom wavers on the line between calm and storm,

where perfume meets the smell of ozone,

and the lawn’s green stillness leans in, listening.

I thread the wind with a quicksilver intent,

curl leaves into a language of waiting,

smear restless gray across the higher vault-

part warning, part promise, part prayer for a fresh start.

Feel the air thicken, buzzing with invisible wires.

Right now, every atom remembers its past:

born in stars, carried by storms, packed with old stories.

Even the white fence, stiff against the darkening south,

stands guard for this quiet kind of magic.

Hang on-

in the sweet, dusty silence, in the traveling hush.

Stay until the first drop signs the dirt,

until the rain’s music lets you breathe out at last.

Because I’m both hush and surge,

both petal and thunderhead,

and in that meeting I remind you:

creation always gathers its strength

moments before it speaks in light and water.