an early poem

Young Fearless

The rain started like static –
Muffling
the chirped lectures and
church caveats,
a nun’s ruler tapping in our heads,
an unending metronome
to pace our instincts.

But that static amplified,
Pouring out and shaking us.
We couldn’t keep from running out
to dance,
letting the droplets slick silver coating
on tight skin, on bare arms
where hair prickled upward, silky
grass blades.

We stuck our tongues out
at lightning bolts
against old warnings
and laughed
when the flashes came too close.
My friend’s mother stood at the back door, watching,
knuckles over the handle, ready to push
out and order us in

before the thunder could get too angry
and shatter us like fragile figurines.

Whoever told us storms
were something to hide from
never heard their music,
the metallic windowpane-plucking,
but we, the ballerinas
on top of the music box,
twirled blissfully in the mud.