Prelude (A Storm Comes to Fruition)

Catch the clouds in your palms,

Molten wisps that speed like trains,

But tastes like violet and two-a-days.

Bathe in autumn, evening heavens at

Seven o’clock in the morning,

Cold that tugs at the down

On forearms and emerges in puffs

Like clove cigarettes.

Press your cheek to the cement,

Washed aglow under the streetlamp,

Cool like whispers and mountaintops,

and awaiting the darkening of sky.

But clouds that streak so uncertainly,

Don’t they foreshadow something?

Tap your fingers against the pane,

And soon the earth will call it forward.

The sound of incoherence and

Omnipresence that one can

Only faithfully call

Rain.