The dew as soft as the morning mist,

turned into flames to hot to spritz.

The thunder as fierce as a hissing cat,

turned into wet mist,

as soft as a mat.

The lightning then rumbled through the hills,

as if to say sorry for the treacherous spills.

And then it was over,

as it never went on,

the spill was silenced,

it was gone.

(Archived poetry from 2003)

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