Wanting for memory
To explain the floating images,
Fugitive phrases
In my mind, the ones I can't
Quite catch, snippets
Of old stories, forgotten poems,
Writing on the land, they
Admix into this
Monologue of rain,
Everything outside and almost
Even in
Green and dripping,
Branches on the trees
Bending near to ground,
They are heavy with rain and
Suppled by the
Blanket of humidity,
Although the cold is coming on
In evening now,
Like an out of step dancer
On the season's stage.
Meanwhile from the unrelenting
Grey aloft, a shaft of
Light appears, though I can't see
The break in sky, nor can I see
Clouds moving, assembling and
Parting to explain,
But there it is.
Tomorrow, comes the sun.
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