Thunder rumbles outside the door
and children cower behind skirts of their mothers.
One hides beneath covers,
two lovers curl closer,
but I go to open the door.
There's a myth that the Angels are bowling.
They stand up in heaven on lanes made of wood,
then send pins clunking and crashing through the clouds.
They're loud.
That crack was the the impact,
the rumble is the tumble,
of pins spinning across the floor.
The groaning of thunder is the terror of night,
but I go to open the door.
Sheets of rain fall silently down
and smash against the pavement before me.
The children behind me hide in sheets of their own,
but I want to stay by the door.
There's a rumor that the sky is breaking,
that thunder is tearing in half.
The clouds once were whole,
and now there's a hole,
from where sound ripped them open,
so vast.
The rumbling and crumbling is loud enough to split
the ear of every shivering man.
But I, myself, I
go to stand by the door
to hear as much as I humanly can.
Thunder rumbles outside the door
and children cower behind skirts of their mothers.
One hides beneath covers,
two lovers curl closer,
but I, curious, I
follow sound through the hall,
and see how they all
cower when I know they should roar.
So I, myself, I
go to open the door.