Passing storms

Rolling boulders of thunder, echo off black cloud canyon walls
Yellow arcs of lighting sparks marks the forge where Thor's hammer falls
Gas thought, liquid words, rain falls becoming ice balls, hail, the stricken anvil of ground
A wind's shriek, as if to speak, a prophesy in otherworldly sound
As solid hail melts in the gale, it dissolves in the mist of a kiss
What we know as snow, in spring does go, back to white clouds we dismiss