This poem! “Is nothing too green for grief, the trees ask…”
Summer’s last thunderstorm
Nineteenth of September, nearly supper.
First the trees start whispering questions.
Leaves swerve to ground like practice seasons.
Is nothing too green for grief, the trees ask.
The answer scrapes the top of the sky.
Bulldozer uprooting forever for the new estates.
Is it over? Almost. It’s almost over.
Then rain, soft, like em-dashes
Between invisible words, unspoken charters.
Whatever they are building up there
Has been redacted already in the unseen
Document of the future, what’s left
Of our uncomposed lives. Word on the tip
Of the tongue in a mouth that closes.
Like clouds closing on a patch of blue.
The thunder has forgotten its voice
Is summer’s, and throttles like a biker
Down a darkening road.
O at the Edges 
I’m so grateful for the storms here in TX because we badly needed the water and there wasn’t too much damage but I know it’s awful in other parts of the country
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I have the same feelings, Candice. Grateful for the rain, but cognizant of the possibilities it brings.
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I love this. The transitory story of a thunderstorm — its entrance, climax, and denouement as it “throttles like a biker down a darkening road.” Wow! Very nice!
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Jeff knocked it out of the park!
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