August Afternoon Routine

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I love the sound of thunder
grumbling in the southwest
on a sunny afternoon, how
the sky gets darker and darker
as if someone had a hand
on the dimmer switch. I love
how the temperature plummets
ten degrees and the wind
kicks up, and the tree tops
shake their pompoms,
the first flashes, first fat drops,
wind in gusts, flapping
pages of my spiral notebook, rain
strained through screens,
misting the porch until lightning
and thunder are simultaneous
signaling us to go inside,
cats leaping over the threshold
first, dog right behind me,
four of us heading to bed.

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Author's Note: In the following poem the end words are a word chain, suggested by Diane Lockward in The Crafty Poet.
 
How are you coping with the news in the Middle East?


I harvest tomatoes and leave them at my neighbor’s
door, plod on through daily life and do not waver
from my steps toward happiness, just a player
on this stage, using every color in the crayon
box. Men in Washington bark to get this war on,
pretend they’re on high ground, the world’s wardens.
 
Never do I cross the border to another’s garden
to water wilting plants or pull their weeds, or tar
the owners for their ignorance that takes illogic far.
I contemplate the range of size from quarks to stars,
and sort my laundry by weight, separate lights from darks.