In Texas it threatens...threatens...
and the heavens open.
The only time I know where the pipes are located in my house
is when it hails.
They are echo chambers lurking behind my walls
banging out one sharp plunk after another.
I stepped out on the back patio
and the smell was a rush of memory.
Dad on the dark back porch,
the squeak of the swing's back and forth
drowned out by the thunder of water on the tin roof.
The brilliant flashes that made me jump out of the warmth of his arm
to say "Woah! It's like daytime"
and peer into the dark greyness hoping it would happen again.
I love the way thunderstorms smell
dirt, grass, wet, moss,
and my dad on the back porch.
This poem is amazing! I love the way you quickly transitioned from the "smell was a rush of memory" to your Dad on the porch swing. You captured SO WELL the way smells instantly bring memories to mind.
Please write more!
Nostalgic sad..ism! Sweet!
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