The first rain quiets the din of the earth
It brings with it a lacquer of indifference
It obeys only gravity, or it would fall up
and coat the heavens.
The second rain comes in the jacketed night
It enters the house, washes away the foundation
Climbs up the stairs and makes a mist of your visions
Leaves stains in the bed where you had been.
The third rain cracks ground with a shattering wetness
Cities subsumed in mud-flow ravines
Wobbling stars in a broken-back night
By day, the sun is as blue as the sea.
The fourth rain, the fourth rain, is green and sweet-smelling
It comes and fills up the things that it touches
The woodwork, the stonework, the flowers, the children
Inside, it courses and sits in low pockets.
The fifth rain is rhythm and chants, incantations
A begging of heavens, a washing insistence
A random commital of calls on the wakened
It pulls things up past the clouds in the sky.
The last rain comes once, on a clear day of sunlight
Logic disputes its very existence
It drops in the eyes and the ears of one person
Runs into the mouth, and paints exhalations.
Over nine years of blogging since transplant for CLL (chronic lymphocytic leukemia) on July 1, 2008 - This picture, painted by son William, launched by blog and was originally painted as a way to remember me after I was gone. Now it just serves to remind...
2 weeks ago