Skies dressed in tattered tulle, silver linings, and lingering dull. A sun is lost in clouded hollows, imminent gloom, and forsaken afterglows. Can you hear the faintest boom, the raging silence, the reckoning loom? A humming, a hawing, a sky withholding. A drip, a drop, a rush comes full-stop. Then tip-tap on the pane, a symphony.
A fellow Bonita and a fellow poet! :) Lovely poem.