Elinore

18

“An Opening Revised into a Closing”

It's not the sound of thunder,
Booming far and farther still-
Nor the air of nighttime
And sweet summer's rarest chill-
Nor dancing of the grass stems
As wind sings through them, shrill.

There is no sense of emptiness
Or insignificance of being;
There's simply what's before you:
All the fireflies you're seeing
And the very distant lightening,
Like the thunder, farther fleeing.

The lightening strikes like fire,
Each firefly a spark;
The night lights up like noon sun
In the zenith of its arc.
The simplicity and amazement-
Though fleeting- leave their mark.

It's not the sound of thunder,
Nor lightening by night blessed-
Yet something from the setting
Wells and fills within your chest.
The dry storm passes onward,
And then comes peace, and rest.