Hurrying From The Field Poem by Romella Kitchens

I lay down in a field of tall grass
maybe as a child would, a child of my creation
the clouds become centaurs and creatures of a new dispensation.
Then, they roll away as if walking through some royal valley in
the heavens.
I fall to sleep and awake to a sky of angry brewing clouds so
dark the lightning with them barely knows its boundaries.
I hurry from the field to
the house my feet fearful of the slippery soil.

I open the door and am in as the clouds burst and rain spills aggressively forth.

My breathing calms yet I am aware I am not you, you who have stood in the field with the lightning, your your arms outstretched letting the rain drench your willing body, laughing with pleasure.

You implored me once to come to
the fields with you to photograph the storms, enjoy them.
I was very much so too afraid yet intrigued but did not.
Your eyes blank at first then knowing, fiercely indicative of understanding.

Sometimes the more passionate clouds win.
Sometimes they do not.