The Passing...................Hack

I watch the breeze wipe the sky clean,
some dark smudges remain,
like crumbs left by a wet dishrag
after a hasty meal.

A summer storm set the tableau
and wind-whipped trees framed it's existence
as the last of the rain hit the pavement.

And so, the passing of another storm,
like the passing of another dinner,
another day, another life.

So much to be taken from the storm.
The air tastes clean, smells fresh.
Cool on thirsty skin
the rain feeds the green—
soaking grateful trees and grasses.

So much is touched by a passing storm,
or the passing life,
either one a meal to feed and sustain
senses otherwise starved.

There are birds now
landing to bathe in the puddles,
splashing and playing in memories
left by the storm,
and just as each life leaves more memories
than it can itself recall,
the storm has touched and passed
moving steadily to the East,
gone from here,
yet still in existence.

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