gravity is cupid and a match is found
when the seed falls for the ground.
then the sun and the rain come pouring down---
only not too much or the plant will drown.
rinse, lather, repeat indefinitely,
pray that the sapling isn’t something’s delicacy.
weather the storm, the cold and the warm,
give it some time to take root and take form.
like a soldier in a trench, the tree shoots up.
it grows and grows and grows and soon enough
its branches are home to factions of fractious frequent flyers,
birds and bees and hidden empires.
then off in the distance the dark clouds cluster,
ready and raring to blister and bluster.
you stop and wonder, "was it thunder i just heard?"
the lightning bolt always gets the last word.
WHEN THE LIGHTNING STRIKES
THERE ARE NO RULES OR RIGHTS
YOU SAY GOOD NIGHT
TO THE PLOT YOU TRIED TO WRITE
left foot, right foot, pick it up, son.
my old man always pushed me to get it done.
grammar, rhetoric, and logic came first.
I became well-versed and well-rehearsed,
in debate undefeated, unscratched platinum.
talk circles around ‘em like Jericho, I flatten ‘em.
finish with math, science, and music,
God gave me this brain, Papa paid for me to use it.
he wrote to me and showed to me the path I would complete.
his boy would be a lawyer or be out on the street.
so ask me how i came to religious revolt:
you know the answer is a lightning bolt.
WHEN THE LIGHTNING STRIKES…
I was headed back to school after a visit with my folks
when the rain started falling, heavy as a plague of toads.
I hoped the storm would pass over, but then the lightning struck.
i prayed to St. Anne --- “save me, and i will become a monk!”
WHEN THE LIGHTNING STRIKES...
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