Thunder Play

A thunderstorm is a play,
Did you know that?
Those bolts of plasma that soar earthbound,
They’re actors to be perceived,
This storms dramatis personae,

The lights in the sky,
And encroaching rumbles,
They signal the curtains resonant opening,
To an applause from the very clouds,
A million little diamonds rushing down,

The bolts immediately commence their dance,
Spiralling and arcing and coalescing downwards,
Lighting up even the darkest night,
Mother Nature sends these dramas to us,
As equal parts frolic and show of force.

If the rain was a person

Can you imagine what it would be like if the rain was a person?
Would it be a she?
What would she be like?
Would she be as kind and soothing as a summer shower?
Or perhaps as harsh and bitter as a freezing winter storm?

She’d be both welcomed and unwelcome at parties,
Like farmers waiting for their crops or flood survivors hoping the worst is over,
Nobody would know when she would turn up,
Or what mood she’d be in when she did,
Would she be a friendly mist or a wicked tempest?

What would she sound like?
Perhaps the light pitter-patter of a shy girl?
Or the booming hailstorm of a drama queen?
A droning drizzle or a vociferous gale?

I’m sure everyone would know her.
Who wouldn’t know the rain?
Who wouldn’t miss the rain?
Who wouldn’t love the rain?
Who wouldn’t fear the rain?