Storm

by Anele Rubin

The heavy fast rain
is not angry
nor sad
and the wind
is not driving
the rain mad
and the dog
barks at the thunder
but the thunder
doesn’t bark at the dog
and the cat sleeps
through the commotion
which settles now
to a slight breeze
and a long soaking.

I like the way the storm
makes me feel
though it hasn’t come
to calm me.

I like the steadfast pouring,
the rain’s rhythmic pelting
of the leaves freshly fallen
and the very slight swaying
of the ones still hanging.

I like how the wind keeps softening,
as if relenting,
while the rain persists,
cleansing,
without intention,
and then it’s over:
a few last drops
from the leaves,
a gleam of light
through the haze.