A poem!

Out of a bird clear sky, out of pure ice cream clouds,
forms a different sort of cloud, a grey terror monster (good)
a black-white death.
It starts at the peaks, moving down the ivory foothills
(twinklings of pitter patter silver-wet kisses)
working themselves: south
into a more clandestine territory,
over pent-up aching rivers.
It gathers strength, empowering itself within its lust for more.
Its greed becomes its more, as it presses on
equally through barren fields and pink peach orchards,
rising violently to this occasion.
At the final rage-blow,
a hard fierce lightning impales the cotton ground.
The earth swells and writhes in the pain,
singing of the body electric.
But the fear subsides as the storm dies,
falling to the ground, spent.

But her small hands do not compare
to the depth of the storm’s new roses.