This rain
falling from grace
doesn’t cleanse.
It is an
acrid, acidic,
biting, bitter thing,
searing my soul,
leaving blisters as it
burns.
It is neither
purging nor purifying,
just a rage that caught
the dusty detritus
of a life lived
alone,
aloof,
apart,
yet with a longing
for vibrant passion.
A life weary with isolation,
abandoned tradition,
and sad resignation.
Unable to rise
from its own ashes,
it covers itself in them,
and tells me everything
will be fine.
Snow-swept,
these softened crags
belie their lethal silence
with a peaceful scene
of still and silent lakes
of ice, and mournful windsong.
The cold tranquility of the whole
speaks to something
inside.
A longing for beauty unattainable,
love yet unrequited but holding
a glimmer
of hope.
*************
An explosion of spring!
Life in hiding
resurging with new energy
of colors and songs
The crowning note
in the music of
our spinning world
among her sisters.
We welcome now
the challenge of a new
slow-dawning day.
Always, the renewed
return to the earth.
These coins
tossed in the well
are hard-packed and
slow to learn
that time washes
wishes
away,
and has its way with us,
in time.
Her sad eyes
looked into my own,
and I looked away,
unable to bear the weight
of her gaze.
How did you not know?
she asked.
“I never set out to do it,
not deliberately.”
And yet, it is a part of you now.
“So it would seem.”
Will you nurture it?
“I’ve little choice.
I’ve written way too many now
to turn back.
I don’t think they’ll let me anyway.”
That seemed to bring her comfort,
and she smiled
as I wiped
her tears away.
I would have hated to leave you.
“I would’ve hated to see you go,
but peace now, Poetry.
I’m not leaving, so
come take my hand
and open your gift.”
Beyond Panic 