Shame Clouds

I was clearly busy
with something
Dictating an email or text
or perhaps
a Tweet about
the beauty of grace.

you interrupted.

Like a fast moving thunderstorm
irritation cast
dark clouds
over my face.

Sounding like distant thunder
I grumbled,
“why do you always
interrupt me
when you can
clearly see
I am talking?”

Meekly, you replied,
as your bright smile
was replaced by
a gray haze
pregnant with shame.

It is no wonder
you dislike storms.