passage

the beginning of a storm
a subtle thing, more felt than seen;
leaf tips turn, a  long clouded sky
seems more certain to descend and touch.
Aromatic earth lies open as if in wait.

The end of a storm, quiet falls like
a curtain upon the stage; the last bolt of fire
and last belly roars fill distant peaks.
It was all the matters in between
that shook ground and resounded
through to the root of us- and everything
seen, touched, tasted-- so different; our
wet skins basted in coolness
as sky and surface mate in elastic
air.
We notice a quiet surrender
upward flow of new clouds
reformed sun to prism-ed arcs.

Yet it is such as we, revel in the spent and shared;
a blend like soft summer winds and dripped leaves.
We can sometimes know a thing of  infinite wonder
how life passes...like the edges of a storm.