Fronts Moving Through

First thunder.
First heavy sound of rain
Tapping at the house, asking to come inside.
It puts a spell over each thought,
Dresses memory in the garb of dream.
Changes sex.
Makes me believe in a way.
I thought of a leg, shapely and smooth
And the tapping turned to pounding,
Drumming, roaring.
Springtime is outside the window
Holding back its signature color.
The sheets of rain draw across like fingertips
So that tomorrow, I imagine
She must be shaking and green.

Further thunder,
Farther away.
The hands release the roof
Like a tired fish back into the stream.
The spell reaches the low point of its rhythm,
A cycle of waves.
There now, one more errant thunderbolt.
I prepare to undress and rob my dreams
Of the last summer’s memories.