On my back porch with a glass of wine watching the storm. Some thoughts.

The rain drips and drops on my tin roof, rolls down the walls of the back porch and soaks the depths of the soil filled ground. Light still touches the tips of the trees and the hedge of leaves that separates you and me. Wind comes down the alley way with no route in mind. Just a need to blow and to part each blade of grass. Rain. It washes. It cleans. It gives new life. The thunder in the clouds matches the sound of my inner me. Anticipation for the storm. Something is rumbling in me. Turning me. Waking me. Pursuing me. Catching me. Inside. And then it stops. Where did you go lightening? Where is my glimpse? Break and crash again. Strike me where I stand. Bring life once more in this dry and cracked heart. Let the ever drumming murmurs of my self lean and bend with a shaking start. My sweet song bird still sings. I hear her through the rain. O bird, if you don't hide from the storm, why then am I still tattered and worn? Rain drops fall. The thunder comes. And it's all made new again. I'm made new again. There is hope in that tiny drop.