rain rings drums ridiculously against the roof as distant thunder rumbles
merely midnight or closer to morning?
awake aware
muddy--muddled—some part of me remains in some dreamscape dancing
ridiculous how the rain sounds like 1962
rising
reaching for redemption
i go quietly silently so as not to walk the sleeping ones
to watch
before windows awash in exacting wet tracings of this thunderstorm
lightening backlighting birch & linden trees
so still so quiet except for rumbly rain & thunder quaking
when i was a child i would find my father quietly silently smoking--sitting with a scotch
in his white terry cloth robe
while storms brewed & boiled in the dark
ridiculous how this rain brings me back to 1962
is it merely midnight or closer to morning?
turning to glance at the time across the room
i discover it is midnight
and i return to the waiting dancing dreamscape
