A bunch of hot air—
Were I so frivolous a creature,
One could forgive all of those electrons’ misfortune;
the expansion and collapse amid a million
microscopic cell-cities.
But the brontide, he’s rolling in.
(Hmmm)
Lesions come lightning, whiplash pour hail!
Or is the smoking black gash
impaled on the evergreen a whimsy of light?
A big magical bang of grand ingenuity,
if you will?
(As if all the atoms in the atmosphere could conjure love)
And what of the Atlantic?
What contrived power could convince an entire sea
to ripple at the suggestion of sound waves?
No, but the brontide, she’s rolling in.
(Hmmmm)
The manic laughter of rain, like thunder,
is seen before it is heard.
The air swells sick with the sound
(you know the grayishblue your daddy warned you about),
An acidic drip lumped in your throat,
The unnerving buzz of chemical imbalance,
Arthritic chattering in both knees.
(Mmmm!!)
My God,
How many nights could Noah count constellations
In a dry sky
Before the first decibels of thunder
Cracked the heavens wide open?
2 Peter 3:9 & 2 Peter 2:5
About: brontide (ˈbrän‧ˌtīd) noun— a low muffled sound like distant thunder
postscript: wow, yet another metaphorical physics poem from yours truly
