I was twelve, the house was full of anger,
I retreated to the yard where the air was thicker,
the breeze was foreboding, the clouds were dark.
Yet, it was still more peaceful out there
the house, a storm raging while another one came
I stood in the yard hearing his thunder.

I could smell the rain before he hit me
warm against my face, gentle, calling
I wondered if he ever touched her that way instead.
I felt safe out in the open, even as the lightning called
I did not waver, but welcomed it, a moment of peace
its snap across the sky could not be as bad as his.

I miss that time out in the yard
beneath the warm rain,
where nothing else could reach me.
Streams of rain instead of tears
washing away pain instead of drawing it;
I stood in the yard in the warmth in the rain.