It is the drop of rain upon your tongue,
tasting of wind and sharp as thunder’s light,
sweeter than tears, the taste of moonlit night
and mountain heights, of stories just begun.
It is the sudden crash that shakes your walls
and rumbles in your bones and clears your ears,
the violent sound of hooves, the maddened cheers
of hunters, cacophony of canine howls.
It is the flash that rends the shivering sky
and takes your sight and breath and leaves you free
to leave behind all that you’d meant to be
to spread your wings and finally learn to fly.
There is no beauty like a storm—
the wild, wet wind, the rolling cloud
that coats the sky with shifting form,
the thunder tolling rich and loud,
the lightning striking violet-white
across the deep and turbulent sky,
patterning the dark with ragged light
to dazzle and blind the watching eye.
There is no power like the wind
that rumples clouds like darkling foam
to pluck the soul loose that’s been pinned,
to break the heart from its cage of bone.
My love’s the storm who pinned my heart
and washed it clear in pelting rain,
who gave me fire to form my art
and taught me how to dance again.
Let me forget your name, O Dancer of Storms,
and know you instead as the breeze caressing my skin,
in the wind that waves the tree, in the deafening din
of the gale that runs before you. My heart warns
that names are dangerous, limiting things. No grace
can come of trying to bound you, trying to bind
a tempest into a story in my mind,
to a people, or to a time, or to a place.
Who can grasp the storm, who bind the wind?
I am not such a fool to hold you still.
I’ll fly with the wind – buffet me as you will –
Throw wide the windows and let the storm come in!
Let me forget your name and ride the blast—
Teach me to forget my own and be free at last.
Oh, Shining One, your foot upon the hills
is lovely and then the rain follows.
The flash of your light brings life.
What grace wells up in us to see
your hand in the lightning, your feet
in the coming storm.
To dance with Lugh, you dance the coming storm:
The shivering wind, the rain that steals your breath,
Blinded by light, you allemande with death
In joy, whirling your way to be reborn.
His spear strikes home. An ecstasy of pain
Places fire in your heart that spreads to every limb,
Your tongue unhinged to sing the lightning’s hymn
Elided by memory, but scribed in you like your name.
He changes that, too, as he lifts your broken heart
From the cage of your chest to crack it on the stones,
Breathes on it instead, and when it begins to beat alone
Returns it to you. He is the master of every art.
This storm can hold your heart in its tender hand
Or call the dance at the limit of your command.