Listening for rain, like a kid on Christmas
waiting for the hooves of reindeer
on the roof. Please Santa, bring me
some lightning wrapped in a bow.
Thunder, the sound of a storm getting its license
to drive wet and loud, out of sight of the clouds
who now question the decision to give him the keys.
His friend the wind will lead him to trouble.
By mid-August, the sun seems a little older,
yellowing like the edges of an old photograph.
A scattered few leaves change colors --
in the mirror, the greying of my own hair.