Poem: Rain Over Field

 

Rain Over Field

 

like a priestess who cannot bless,

the clouds humor a suckle of wind,

and cast forth--

 

to coax the quick of plants,

and lift a rabid euphoria of field 

into laceworks of awkward love.

 

what is worse?

to crave ribbons of fallen affection,

or to strew them through frantic mud,

where greed wriggles its feed-me dance--

 

everything from the antennae of stalks

to the nudity of worms?

 

unsure where to stare,

in such misty glaze of sky,

the lack-of-sun craves excitement,

the swoops of jays or merlins--

 

or some kind of solid judgement,

maybe a sturdy tree.

 

but the seeds of hope

conveyed by the rain are too fickle,

the shine in the droplets torpid,

before crashing on sunken ruts--

 

roads slain to passage; to storms of surprise;

roads that no longer believe

the tenderness of water.

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