Before Rain

What is it about cloudy springtimes that prophesy some
tenuous complicity,
some unpardoned infliction?
Perhaps it is the flowers,
blooming silently in their waxy delicacy,
peering with expectation
at the watery gray delight of sky-borne promises.
Is it rather crows,
roaming the spaces between sky and earth,
calling primal, undignified,
the ugliness of their songs
like water filling porous rocks–
an erosion of sound,
an inkblot on the wind?

Is it trees, leafy, burdened with
green and bustling purpose,
fluttering noisily in northern breezes
and then, just before dusk,
are ominously,
expectantly,
silent?

 

Is it the nearness of faces,
awash in the crispness of gray light and thunder
yet unspoken,
bundled to eyes in black clothes,
walking hurriedly,
conspicuous eyes made of a curious haste,
darting every so often
toward the clouds?

©K Paige Medina 19 April 2017

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Make Liquid the Light

Strange how–
still separated by time,
by a world made of spaces,
by mismatched frequencies of
speech and faith,
the undulating currents and currencies of
what it means to be human
in a world bled by the
needs we can’t deny or the pains
we choose to allow,
these borders we have built with hands
unfettered by memories of connection—
we still choose sometimes to
make wonder out of weapons and
make liquid the light that
illuminates the cracks in our facades and,
shimmering,
dies.

Was it ever that we were separate,
gods alone in our towers,
or were we merely children,
waiting once more for the freedom of play,
the work of souls
bound up in a momentary agreement that
for a small time,
we can smile in silence at the crackling stars we have made?

©K Paige Medina  01 January 2017