“What makes the thunder, Daddy?” I asked.
“Angels bowling,” my father replied.
“Then what is the rain?” I persevered.
“Angels crying,” he sweetly lied.
And then I asked him “What about lightning
That jumps through the darkness so sudden and frightening?”
“That’s when the angels bowl in the dark,
When the ball hits the pins it makes a big spark.”
Many long years have passed since that day.
My father has long since passed away.
But I wonder, at times, when a storm comes rolling,
Is he up there now with the angels bowling?