Telling My Friends of the Storm

by John Grey

I should have been explaining the dream.

Instead, I gave them the weather report.

There was that long gray time

when I could almost hear the sky deliberating;

the flash of fireworks in the distance,

thunder's distant rumble, that rehearsal

for the most overhead of claps.

There were short sharp bursts of hard rain,

there were long periods of mellow drizzle.

It was loud and fierce.

It was almost graceful

in the rhythms of its drear.

There was a perfect arrogance to the way

it took over the world,

upset its clear and calm conceits.

I understood the storm more

by observing the trees flapping back and forth

in sudden bursts of wind,

the cat diving for shelter,

my neighbors out in the worst of it,

gathering children's toys from their flooded lawns.

But that's not how dreams are

and that's not how storms are.

I fell asleep at the window

and I was back in my childhood

dancing in the puddles,

cheering on the war gods,

celebrating the cool of the wet on my skin.

You missed a great storm,

I was telling my friends.

You should have known me then,

I longed to say.

 John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris.