What is made when lightning strikes?
Is sand turned to glass
like a heart kissed
by love, for the first time.
pure, clear, refracting rainbows
in the corner right above your bed
caught for a split second in the summer afternoon.
So innocent, and so fragile
to be hild like wild flowers
blowing away in rough winds,
pulling with all their might
at the dry ground for even one drop
of sweet water.
Or the butterfly that flits through the air
on the cool breeze,
if you touch it, it may never fly again.
Or does lightning, like love too
make us coarse, black, filled with fire
before we turn to ash.
Like an oak creaking, falling in the night.
Or a barrel made of that very same wood
filled to the rim with wine
redder than blood
Spilling sweet acrid passion all over
the workman’s clothes.
Like that time I broke down in public
spilling it out all over the cashier at the liquor store
pleading that someone would,
mop me up.
take me home.
or have the decency to notice,
the waves in me that
had become a tsunami,