Rain

I slept splendidly through a night of steady, cold rain and awoke to a deluge of a day.  My thoughts seem squishy and damp, just like this day.  Ruminating a recently written poem feels like the entirety of my morning’s musing.

The Rain

Where is the green growing place in which dreams plant abundant offerings, food

desire.  Tomatoes ripe red or possibly pomegranates fat with scarlet seeds that tempt

Persephone tied to the underworld with a mate to whom much has been promised

within whose ebony root cellar sprawl permanently entangled shoots in shared soil

after pollination rise sprigs of new life.  Figs feel more compelling than apples.  Figs

should have been the forbidden fruit trickling from woman’s hunger dropping seeds

into grass amid flowers.  Tulips budding hot fuscia array guarding purple white turnips

forming unseen beside squash and eggplant and beans, sensible vegetables of lesser

temptation but also in need of water.  As for rain no one knows if it will come or not.