After the Thunderstorm

After the thunderstorm

when the morning air is gathering the heat of the rest of the day

and the sidewalks are still streaked with wetness,

a drop from the tallest branches of the trees

falls and lands in the center of my palm

to remind me --

this is what life is.

The storm. The thunder. The mud sliding off the unprotected hills.

The clearing sky. The heavy warming air.

A remnant of an angry sky,

its gentle touch across my palm,

the humid air taking it back again --

suspended, in between unseen molecules,

to be taken in my lungs and exhaled,

returned again to clouds and fall --

changed and renewed.