daily poem 2

It starts with water pouring through
a sieve of wild clouds. The sound
of hard drumming seems to ease the lines
of sky and shore, into white gray.

The captured lake turns silver, stirs to frothing.
Angry edges are outshouted by thunder,
wind roused, rumbling caution. Lightning
bounds out; bright can always speak
against gray.

Water changes, descending with deliberate,
slow drops. Restless clouds shred
into strange shapes, tangling in layers
of dark, across a lightening sky.

The far, green shoreline appears. Seen
through fast traveling drops, it is
impossibly, far off, hope. Slow and stop.
In that quiet? there must be an answer.