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.

— Carol Hamilton