Then and Now


I hear the rolling thunder in the distance
and I liken it to be
just as the low growl I hear
when my ear presses against your throat.

You see, I try not to think of you
when the rains come.
But each rain drop that falls
feels like a finger tapping
the back of my shoulder.

Each gust of wind
howls at me
and I swear
I could hear your voice in the distance

But my answer to you
is not in the form of a temperamental
there-is-an-eighty-percent-chance-of-a-thunderstorm
kind of weather.

It is in the soft,
almost inaudible,
murmur of a flower opening its petals,
whispering,
I am here.

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