healing poems

Spring storm
Sky is heavy with gray clouds
I can feel the wind pressing down
On them to wring water from their grasp

That same air fills my nose
with pollen from the
seemingly fresh breezes, then,
perversely presses down my lungs
to prevent my inhaling a full breath.
My head begins to hurt.
I return inside,
close my eyes a cool cloth
shielding them from reflected light
until I hear the crash of thunder.
My eyes peer out at gray, darkness
where there had been blue,
dark clouds hover where earlier
white fluff skittered playfully about.
Now, wind is in charge,
wringing the water out of those
dark shapes to great effect.
Standing now, by the window,
I watch water stream down
hear it pound steadily on my roof.
When wind and rain have spent themselves,
I open the door and pull in lighter air
free of water’s weight, free of pollen.
Air fills my lungs with
coolness. The pressure on my head
relaxes. Water has washed away
sun’s vise-like grip on the day.
Others may run from beach, walks, from
plein aire garden sketching when rain comes,
but I rejoice, revel in the rain.