I nearly cried tonight for how I miss my thunderstorms.
Their dark castles of clouds and fecund petrichor.
Blown in from the next county,
thunder rumbling and rolling slowly,
and the wind so lonely it’s holy.
Travelling leagues just to greet me.

With it summer’s first smells
(devoured by famished window sills)
wash me tip to toe,
distilled into the first beads of sweat,
rolling unchecked to elbows
down roads
of gritty, white salt.