To Call a Thunderstorm

Drawing rainstorms in the margins,
the notebook is soaked by rain.
Dark clouds arisen from confusion,
and lightning drawn in pain.
Clear the storms and wisps and trills,
there's not much left but thought.
Thought given no more to hate than love,
and the reasons for feeling are gone.
The notebook is blank for very long,
with no reason to draw in the margins.
Until a flame in the night lights a fuse,
and calls a thunderstorm.