The First Storm

The rain is poking at the windows tonight
and as I glance at fingers on the glass
I start to envision the first storm to cloud the skies,
how frightened the first witnesses must have been.
 
They would have fled their crackling fires
hastening to the safety of painted caves,
huddling at a damp, cold boulder base,
for this was long before Noah and his Ark.
 
The strongest warrior might have braved it
as water came cascading down the jagged rocks,
thunder pulsed through the flashing skies
and winds howled louder than the lonely wolf,
 
he would have clenched his mighty, callused fists
stepping into the storm with a fury, warlike cry,
a champion to be standing in the perils of the storm,
squinting his heavy brow as rain soaked his beard.
 
But suppose the first to emerge was a woman
with small, graceful steps and an inner strength
that carried her courageously into the mud;
she would have loosened her furs, once held tight
about her
 
looking upward as the rain caressed her forehead,
flowing down her young, muscled back,
a sea of skin-waves rippling across her chilled body,
and if you, a stranger, were bold enough to join her,
 
You may have been the first person to fear the power
Of freedom in simple passions like the rain.