Ode to a Thunderstorm

Angels bowling

I always liked that idea
As if Heaven were some giant bowling alley
As if, above the dark clouds,
Lane upon lane of elegant wood stretched
Out into nothingness
And people dressed in white and swan’s wings
Wandered and bowled,
As if their dreams never contained anything else.
I could hear it, some nights,
The growling in the sky
A peaceful, lengthy rumble fading into the distance
It is then that I remember:

A bowling alley, a birthday party,
Where I first noticed and talked with
A friend
We mimicked the simple Heaven of a child’s mind
Gentle rolling thunderstorms
Angels bowling.

But there is no sweet metaphor
To name the other kind of thunder
That sets my heart racing
Breathing fast
Or not at all
That brilliant

Flash

of light
That strikes at the same time
As the sound of the air splitting apart
A display of raw power
I remember:

An abandoned campout, running in the dark
Back to safety, fleeing from the war in Heaven
With that same friend
For a moment we both stood in the wind and the rain
Threw our heads back
And looked up.