These are songs we rehearse
Only to ourselves.
Feigning patience,
In the thick stagnation
When the wind fell away,
And the sun is all that is left.
.
This time of smoke
And old valleys
Sitting low, in their once verdant chairs,
Bosomy ranges now creaking, tight,
Under their own thirsty landscapes.
.
In this time of waiting,
Rhythms are scribbled across a dry creek bed:
Brittle choirs of sand and pebble,
Playing to a listless audience,
Muted in dust.
These are songs we dare speak
Only to ourselves
While we wait
Patiently
Through the thick stagnation
We encounter somewhere
Between summer and fall
When the wind falls away,
And the sun is all that is left.
.
This time of smoke
And old valleys
Sitting low, in their once easy chairs
Of coastal ranges gone tight
And creaking
Under their own thirsting landscapes.
.
You can just about hear the memories:
Water-worn tales amidst the dust and rounded gravels,
Once verdant glee,
All gone brittle,
In this time of waiting.
Shaken Rain 