My soul sings, too,
of the storm’s embrace.
The roar of need,
the groan of passion –
water for water – before which flies
inconsequential space
and remnants of the daily pace:
bags,
paper,
the squeamish and the self-possessed
who will not be possessed.
A cup bounces, skitters, rolls
away.
And the ravishing begins.
The winds
are singing
to the thrashing grasses –
touching, touching.
The trees
are bending, sending
old lives, false starts
winging to the wind’s wild singing.
Earth meets Earth,
sky on land,
land in sky,
gravity and wind,
Water to Water.
The streetlights flicker.
and silver curtains fall
on voyeurs
who peer from the dry-side of a wall.
But I’m out in it.
My soul sings, too,
to the Song being sung.
God willing that I return
the glory of the storm
from within who I am –
become –
return it to the one
Who is Song.
Song of storms,
but also wide skies,
dark, glittering nights,
impossible eternity
gaping overhead.
And I’m out in it.
But again, not only Song of storms and skies,
of worlds without end,
but Song of you,
my friend,
lover,
you are sung;
you walk among these worlds,
filling inconsequential spaces
with place.
Sung. Surprisingly.
And I wrap you in my hopes,
long stretched.
They tremble to hold what can finally be held.
My hope is old;
her hair loosed from tidy pins,
falling silver.
Her arms tremble to hold what can be held:
you.
Sung from the Song.
Can honey drip from silver?
Or darkness be filled with flame?
Can the inconsequential quiver?
Or the sun color the rain?
