Waiting on the Rain

I sat across from him

a decrepit old man breathing

into lungs of sawdust and glass.

I slowly slide over some tea

his hand shakes as he reaches for it ,

How did you do it? – I asked

“Well it may get dark

and there may be pain

but air tastes sweetest

right before the rain”

His face had these lines

these deep trenches. Like each

memory, was dragged across his face.

But the sea of lines

parted when he smiled.

“don’t you dare give in

these times won’t stay

my boy this sky,

will shortly rain”

His papery hand reached out

to grab my hand.

He squeezed with all his might.

I stood from my chair,

I kissed his forehead,

then got up to leave.


This morning,

I got rain on the spine of her book

part of me thinks she’d like that

she’d find it fitting

it’d match the rainfall of her world

the storm of her soul

so deeply felt,

so beautifully expressed.

I looked up what she looked like

an old photo with these full pursed lips

like she could barely contain the words

locked behind her teeth –

she looked thoughtful

like her mind had the same pauses,

the same punctuation as her writing.

I wondered if she felt like me

frustrated her words only decorated

the fragility of her own papers –

her whole life only five published works

out of her 1775 masterpieces

her 1775 genuine expressions of humanity.

This morning,

I wrote her a love note

folded into a square

and watched the rain in the street,

carry it into the sewer.

The Cloud

How can I be so amazed

by something so far

so deeply cared for

yet close to my heart.

I hope The Cloud won’t worry

about where it stays

it’ll float right along

with grace all the same.

So ease your sweet mind

my friend The Cloud

dream your dreams softly

but say them out loud

to my friend, with love,

The Cloud.