Thunder crept up in the dark,
electric night air charged and ready
to crack the predawn sky
until it breaks, bursts, explodes
with the relief of a cold rain.
A summer downpour delivered
by the solstice and steam rising
from the hot rock of a gravel road.
I stand at the kitchen window
and watch a resurrection,
eerie in the ambient light of a storm
and a sunrise pushed aside.
Lightning bolts illuminate ghosts
hovering in the fog, barefoot and restless
pulled from some eternal sleep
in a hidden country graveyard
to go for one more meandering walk
while the veil is thin.
Mamaw got struck one time,
a human conductor for a celestial spark.
They put her little feet in water
and watched the washtub go green.