I can see your face growing older in the flashes of lightning. Each one is a comma, the turning of a page or maybe an indentation. In between the light the air moves quickly, its dark growl unleashed.
I remember the first time I saw lightning and lightning bugs. Here in this very place at dusk you reached your small hand out to catch them, your shirt colorful as the jungle itself, you played until the lightning came. Though it was far away, you cried and I lifted you up lightly like a small sack, a loaf of bread or a pair of socks. Easily I carried you to your room. Easily I created safety.
And now I can only watch the electricity find its invisible conduit. I cannot move us away from the storm.
The earth is a sink; when can we melt together into its infinite charge? When can we take solace in the fullness of it, the core and the mantle? Every day my skin blisters from the heat of lightning crossing from earth to air.
pura vida 
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