The Storm: A Gully Washer Poem

This morning the rain arrived before the sun,

lightning stippling the sky in a staccato imitation of dawn.

The wind turned the white oak feral,

and my porch chimes whirled a fierce, unruly hymn.

My cat despises thunder and wetness;

she slinks around the corner, meowing for sanctuary—

a domesticated critter, like me.

But everything that rises green from the earth rejoices.

By tomorrow the grass will hurry to close its bald patches,

and seedlings will shoulder their way through the dark, damp soil,

sap-green and tender as a newborn’s downy crown.

The trees will thicken with emerald shadow,

sheltering the mockingbird’s nest,

and stretch themselves an inch nearer to the sun.

Now the thunder draws closer,

the wind lashes with a wild insistence.

Sparrows and small, furred creatures tuck themselves

into hollows only partly sheltered from the gullies now streaming,

the rainwater now shooting from the gutter spouts.

A flash—then a crash so near it makes me cringe,

and I retreat into the safety of wood and brick, of glass and tile.

But the trees are braver than I.

They embrace the storm with limbs held skyward

whipping a frenzied dance of wild grace.

Sometimes I need a good gully washer—

to sluice away the dust,

the protective layers, the practiced artifice,

my determined self-delusions about sweetness and light.

There are sorrows that demand mourning,

injustice and greed that deserve my rage.

I must relinquish the vain hope

of avoiding or controlling the storm,

and instead let it wash over and through me—

to feel its truth, to resist resisting,

to quiet the pull of my familiar shelter.

Thunderstorms come and they also go.

A hush descends as the real dawn breaks,

appearing beneath a clean edge of cloud

while the departing thunder grumbles

like an old man hobbling away on his cane.

Birds reemerge, shaking off the rain and chattering

as the gutters add their dripping percussion.

I fill my lungs with moist, rinsed air

fragranced with a hint of jasmine.

I watch the storm’s dark edge

slowly retreat to the east.

Here comes the dawn, and I love it—

but let me love the storm as truly.

Let me welcome whatever comes,

and allow each weather, each season

to carve its quiet wisdom into me

like the lovers' vow etched in

the smooth bark of the white oak tree.

May 2026

dawn after the storm