Few (mundane) things are more defeating than to put your pen to paper,
To drag your hand across, and to know that whatever
Is written will fall short. But I write, because the early morning
Was something extraordinary, the master’s fine silver
Melted down and repurposed to embellish this town.
A week has passed with blue skies in day, full constellations
By night, and a present edge to each inhale that is winter’s,
And only hers. For the valley, February is soaked-through
On most occasions, dripping from the outside to the insides,
And back out again. Rain is inevitable, always, “soon.”
We are slaves to the rain; most cower under hood, under
Roof, under umbrella, under newspaper – always under,
In the body and mind, but I find security and comfort,
And often open my chest to leave my heart to its thunder,
And mind to its lightning, for the pooling water conducts.
That curtain has fallen back into place, and when I
Called it silver, that is no justice, it’s a molten moon
In color, midnight skin in feel (things needing your
Assembly, in that putting together between where my
Words end and where you begin – where there’s more).
There you can see deep in the woods, same as I do
From this city house. There is a rain that hangs to
the forest floor, where the glowing fern hugs cold
To the ground as pine-needles scent the wet dew
Of their embrace – where they whisper and unfold.