lightening

[melodicinkysin]

To wait is to wound,
cut in the skyline and count flashes.
It is to feel the sloven
warmth, the spider crawl
of bristled, strike and wonder--
to where does the bolt ground?
In what grasses does
the mother hide?  The tiniest
of green creatures stroked
me, wove its way between patches
of pale skin in twilight.
As it reached my fingertip, I blew--
sent it humming into the night.
Rage, I urged.  Feel the rainfall,
hear the distant peels and lie,
cutting night with silver wings
and wait.