Approaching Storm

In college my professor had us write a poem from the prospective of the blind.

Humidity.
Slick, damp, cloying touch on my skin
pungent odor of rain in the air.
mother nature sets her own clock.
Thunder.
Sound of grumbling. . .faint in the distance still
I know the storm is moving closer
the signs are there. . .the smells, the sounds, the feel.
Rain.
Light fingers sliding down my skin,
cool and steady
nurturing the earth.