Until nature has acquired its fill of dreams,

Memories of these days, staying inside dry.

My Mom told me, it was God, wailing a cry.

Each clash of thunder, He was bowling a strike.

Reminding her, I would like to, ride my bike.

Misleading, you may think, to tell children these things.

Each story told, was a memory, only childhood brings.

Moms do not lie; they just sometimes avoid the truth.

Only trying to ease and calm distress of the youth,

Requiring detail and imagination throughout the years,

In trepidation, I listened; slowly I would end my tears.

Eventually, I learned the reality of nature’s wonders.

Still I recall, her simple stories, whenever it thunders.