Renee Carter Hall
At the height of the storm he goes out
to watch, and upon returning hands me
a hailstone the size of a quarter,
a piece of cold sky, layered
like a cell, like an egg from tumbling
through the lightning-cracked clouds.
Fascinated, I cup it in my palm, forget my worries
about the car and the windows, ignore the storm warning
still scrolling on TV. I watch it melt, then
press my lips to it, tasting glacial winds and
permafrost, polar nights and silver snow--
and as the rain falls more softly,
the thunder more distant,
the storm dissolves on my tongue.
© 2001 Renee Carter Hall