Outside the insistent skies rumble, boom, lightening crashes.
Inside, resting in our room the silence reigns, insists on being silent.
We lie in the all but darkness,
pale light at the windows made paler still by pale blue curtains.
Later, as the storm abates, Bill in boots rescues drowned strawberries,
I, walking barefoot on the porch, eat one as I hold the hanging baskets
under the eaves to catch the runoff from the roof.
In early years, our home was silent, childless, as we awaited the promise of our lives.
Who would we be? Where would we walk? Who would come to be with us?
Now, silent again, having found as much of the answer as we ever will,
we await the persistent promise.