The smell of summer rain
means we will never pass
by this place again, friend.

Lightning strikes in the distance.
The pitter-patter
rhythmically beats against
the aluminum window frame
as I press my face against the cool glass,
trying both to stay awake
and to wake up:

the rain will turn, shortly, into snow,
the snow into wind,
and the wind into time escaped,
masked in gentle thunder
amidst a downpour of torrential loss.



Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.