Storm System

Deep under Spring-spreading leaves,
from evening thunder splitting Summer
air with a crackling expectation, drops as
big as your thumb, bursting on hot cement.

Your neck carries the scent of peppermint,
my lips buried there, tasting
the oil the warmth releases.
Our breath suffused in the pressure and heat,
of the world before the storm. The storm.

It is a tyrant of pleasure, cool drops
soaking to skin in seconds, on stepping
out from the canopied leaves, from shelter.
It is a rush of upward-exalting pores,
pressure released in the trails of every drop.

Your fingers slick in mine; the earth
releases its own emollients, rich draughts
of carmine, ferro-humic, hints of
aluminum and ozone. And the
barometer drops, your skin is cool
to touch, the storm darkens your brow.
All above and between is unweaving.