Warnings of Rain

The sun is hot on my back, dapples
the trees and I have warm air
in my lungs.  The sound of hammering
from the house builders by the
bridge echoes loudly in the rock
walls of the gorge.  I am sated,
here, yet my stomach is hungry
and my spirit restless.  Unnameable
things.  Plans and schemes are
easy on paper, thought-process
quick as light.  Body does not
comply, spirit distracted.  Too
many places and people and things.
I should clean the dirty white
stone down the way but time
sweeps us and we are consumed
by the sweat of the day.  All
my gardens are overgrown and the
birds, bees, rodents, have their
field-day.  I should string-up
some bunting for someone else's
party.  I can't seem to control
my way, my feet are wandery
and the straight and narrow
beyond me.  It is as if I live
in all my pasts simultaneously
and the present is a film in front
of my eyes I can't see through
clearly.  Sun is hot, air warm, day
calm, the mountain is green.  All
the storms at my back drove me here
after everything was gone and no-
thing remained.  Many things
lie dormant, like wasted seeds,
I have all my needs, my things,
the huge wells of precious water
are dark, deep, still.  My hands
are slippy, try to grasp the moment
but it spills, always spills.

In the gorge at the foot of my
garden the river rushes and falls.
I lie in bed at night warm,
comfortable, alone, and think of
all the nights after when the light
in her room was not on.  I pray
no more, merely hope for a
good day when I can do one
thing.  On my 'phone
there are warnings of rain -
tomorrow the day will change
and I get to do it all again.

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