Smells Like Rain

I’ve been around long enough to recognize

signs of an impending squall.

When wind rattles through the upper branches

of the birch trees,

when it plucks at their leafy aprons

like a bashful toddler child,

and sycamores kick their emerald crinolines,

lift usually subdued voices in raucous animation,

it’s a sure bet a storm approaches.

I can read momentous omens

from tell-tale-green tornado skies, forecast

gully-washers from the immaculate glow

of burgeoning thunderhead clouds.

My basement is a refuge of candles,

of matchbooks, flashlights and jars. Stocked

with bottled water, a transistor radio,

I’ve learned to be prepared, how to ride

the tide, how, when on fire, to stop, drop and roll.

So, when you hover near my office door, boy,

know that I’ve raised two sons already,

that I have younger brothers, a zillion nephews, and I know

by the way your cheeks burn, the hesitant tone

of your stammer, your eyes darting every direction

but mine, that there’s a storm in the making.

Let’s make it easy now, shall we?

Just stop fidgeting, Son, and spill.

Dimples on a Thimble