As early as I can remember, I loved the rain.
I used to stand outside under the shelter of a porch
and raise my small arms into the air
and scream at the top of my voice
to whomever may be listening up there.
And even now I know I was heard,
because the thunder would roll
and the rain would drive down
harder and harder
and match the fury and anguish in my heart.
And when I had screamed myself out
and there was nothing left inside,
the rain would stop
the thunder would quiet.
And I would be left,
like the day itself,
with nothing but grayness
and the memory of a storm.

 Laura K. Stants ©2003