I’m outside and a storm is coming.
I watch clouds darken as they accumulate.
On edge, I’m waiting for the first snap of lightning.
Voices from the house call me inside.
When I don’t move, they say I’m crazy.
But I’m in the mood to feel something huge,
all-encompassing and dangerous.
People haven’t done that for me in years.
They’re too busy either making accommodations
or asking for my indulgence.
They’ve lost the art of being all there is.
I feel a raindrop on my hair, another on my shoulder.
Dusk’s ceiling is low and grey
and its faucet is dripping.
The electricity is building up.
The heavens have no way of handling it.
Too much will lead to the most violent of cracks.
But it merely rains.
Clouds move on without much drama.
I’m drenched not exhilarated.
Unhappy in my own skin,
when I expected to be one with the universe.
So I shuffle off inside. Faces stare at me.
Words are unnecessary but they speak them anyhow.
“Not smart enough to come in out of the rain,”
they figure,
But I was never smart.
Just too alive.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, Writer’s Block and Trampoline.