RAIN

whispers to me
your secret.

It tells me

of the seeds
in your pockets

and the clouds
in your hair

and it tells me

it can draw
you out

of your dry place
for a price.



Of course I know

the price
but I dimiss it

and the rain
sets out to find you

and I wait

soaked.



I dry in the rays

of the sun
when the rain returns

without you

it says nothing
only indicates

the ground at my feet
a tulip sprouts

and blooms

before me.



I am reminded

of your return

THE SPECTER OF ACTUALITY

Everything is caught
in the undertow.
I think music captures
this truth best.

I keep moving
until I match
the speed of life.
Then I let go.

The point is not
to pass or avoid
failing the test.
The test is merely

The true measure
of one's worth.
Taking it or leaving it
has always been our choice.

A voice will dissolve
into mist, haunting
harbors and homes.
Scratching at steamed
windows in the snow.

Emitted from the creaking
of anchored chains,
The whispers of the dead
fall upon emptiness.

I try to become familiar
with these empty spaces.
I try to remember these
lost voices once belonged
to different faces.

Individuals forgotten
in time. Yes, I can
imagine. No countries.
Only land. Listen to
the whispering wind.

It only tells of friends
lost or gained.
All these leaves
are carried downstream,
Headed toward the same sea.

That's the message carried
in the chuckling laughter
of a babbling brook.
It is the secret
in the book.