The Accompanist
Thunder’s voice says
the instant of peril just passed.
Even as we huddle
in a frail tent and fear,
the rumble, curling into itself,
smaller and smaller with distance,
cheers me. Two days now
with too much lightning to work
in yard or at computer, and still
I lie awake to hear it grumble.
Later it pounds a havoc drum,
frenzied, and the walls around me
echo the tremble. The windows shimmy.
This is blessing, too. It is a benevolent
phenomenon. I have never heard
you say, “He died to too much thunder.”
Like Saturday night …. we applauded
the organist who told us all the tones
of fear and laughter we should share,
his music saying that Buster Keaton’s
dangers would not touch us.
Like good thunder,
he deserved our accolades.