Thunderstorms
By Linda A. Copp

Witches on broomsticks,
the cauldrons used to stir.
Used to be, you could tell the truth
by just the way, things were.

But, now, the magic's everywhere,
good, bad, in between.
Witches are bewitching,
Wizards quick and mean!

Moon glow on the mountain,
the Sorcerer knows his spell.
The stars have come to know them all,
Ah! but, they never, ever, tell.

When lightning flashes,
across angry skies,
and thunder roars above.
It's all a part of the where's, and why's
and the sweet what for's of love.

The aftermath, the confusion,
of what we think we see,
And what we can't, and what is - 
or was, 
and may now never be!

By Linda A. Copp
©September  1,  1981