The pink clouds are a surprise.
A glowing refreshment,
Then a long exhale
Of a wearied man having trudged so long
Through dust,
Succumbed to the dull stone,
Scraped in thorns,
Pasted in stickery sweat,
To a vista:
visited before,
Briefly.
.
The slow release into newness,
And old places returning.
.
This thirst will not go,
It’s scratching, clawing,
Snatching nights,
And holding fast in the haze of dawn.
.
Give me the sweet smells of loam,
And damp leaves.
Passing edens
Languishing
In the softness of decay.
.
My long exhale,
Reprieves from these gasping anxieties,
Before I sit and listen,
To the sharpening air,
As the first water
Falls on the dry grass.
Shaken Rain 