storms brew in the summer,
like soup boiling in a pot,
they build, and build, and build
as the skies turn gray and the people turn red with frustration.
they tease with humidity,
cranking up temperatures and frizzing up hair,
and occasionally they laugh
with muted thunder
or the flash of a lightning-white grin.
and when they cry
(because a storm is just the sky weeping)
they cry for many things.
sometimes they cry because of laughter
and the sound of toddlers splashing in the downpour.
sometimes they cry violently,
and thunder yells while lightning shrieks
and the roads become angry rivers.
sometimes they cry because they are lonely
and so tired that even the rain sounds exhausted,
softly drumming against windows and lulling us to sleep.
storms can cry for many reasons:
so i will watch and wait for a storm to start,
because storms come alive when they
brew in the