Night Thunder at the Cabin

In thunder at 2 a.m. 
I occupy all my lives 
my loves hovering holding 
rising with me to the wild night 
real as photos I tacked in daylight 
to the rough wood wall above the stairs 
or secret in the wardrobe of my mind. 

Electric, shuddering in wanting more, 
the lightning out of sight, 
in memory I make my own. 

Effortless, taken dripping wet 
I mount the sapling maples 
where, still small, I, my three brothers 
            and six cousins fled 
to fly in windy thunder storms, 
my ringlets sloshed to curly curl, 
my arms and legs wrapped around a slim trunk 
like binding on a sprain 
till ecstacy let one hand loose 
to open to the raging sky 
a cup of fingers 
reaching for the rain.