maybe

distant thunder.
the kind that wakes you from sleep not because you hear it, but because you feel it,
because the hair at the base of your neck prickles,
because there’s a charge to the air
even if the clouds outside the window haven’t fully gathered yet,
still loitering just beyond the tree line.

I am struck by the pale purple hyacinth in the dining room
the bold rose-coral hydrangea in the living room
the sprouted green cabbage
the white budding citrus.

this morning I want a hot, steaming bowl of buttery oatmeal
creamy and sweet and thick.
ginger tea.
regina spektor and feist and ani difranco
bittersweet, bright, unstoppable.

ready for the sudden downpour.

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