The Sock Drawer - 2. Storm

Storm

I step out of the scarlet mood of a night’s heated embrace

into a vast grey morning, and a sharp cold brushes my face.

The force of the storm and rain

whips my breath alive again.

The water dies on me and runs in cold streams down my skin,

and like the wet heavy clothes my hair clings,

and etches the shape of my face, complete with closed eyes and a grin.

An exhilarating gust of wind billows my lungs and I have to laugh.

Euphoria blows away the ice trickle that stings,

I throw up my arms, shout against the roaring --

full of rushing trees, rumbling skies,

while the rain’s battering, pouring --

with rain, wind, and light in my eyes, that I’m in love.