I know your grandmother would disapprove—
We’re too exposed, the lightning’s awful near.
There’s nothing to conduct here but to prove
You’ve overcome some basic childhood fear,
Deserve a later, “grown-up” time for bed.
The porch light’s off—that too disturbs you less.
A windgust turns the fan blades overhead:
You squeeze my arm to offset slight distress.
We count the miles. Your seconds tend too fast.
I slow us down, insert a Mississipp’—
Insert a year, insert our common past
Before the tempest makes me lose my grip.
The intervals from flash to clap are growing.
This storm, your youth, our time here–never slowing.
Phillip Martin
Said Another Way 