Your voice falling after this thunder
like handfuls of cool mud
plastered onto silence, our lightning wounds
Dark mending over the places
that will always need it:
a result of exposure or poor planning
Your words soothe and dry in place
Tadpoles make a magic appearance
after the storm
Add more water to the cracks
in the sun, on the surface
Smooth the mud
with your weathered hands
and pray for a climate
that cures us slowly
