skyline

A distant crow atop a teetering cypress waves in the wind and rain as the rain comes calling on us all. Whether the window watchers or the weather gossips or the back masked sublimation of those 70s rockstar satanists finally catching up, the rain stretches and whispers, it patters and drums on the aluminum roofing, it casts a shadow threaded from the light to the soil. I look up and the crow is gone. The soil awakens, taking the skies breath away. The skyline all treetops and gray horizons. The skyline all the words to the write off. 

Because the words came with the story, because this is the process part of the poem, fingers peeling slow from the keypad. The smudges another set of symbols, the building blocks and watermarks, the thin veneer of agency boiling away into the restless atmosphere. Cold hands, always cold hands. The limits of the instrument, the wearing away of the dated organism, the machine unmade. The day a storm, the day the steam drawn by the icy skies, the day a set of unsettling remarks. The witness to the too late. The walker into the blizzard lost.

So the words wander through our hearts and wounds, the stunned and the stuck and the heavenly host of us. So we have our say as the the words spill out. My old eyes and cold hands typing another string, as transient as a glimpse of rain, the moment tailing plumes. The giddy green and gray of it, the pouring through the pines, the simple wish for a particular kiss. These images that draw me out, the way I stare and stare. The rain falls, the music drones, the I want spilling out as I go. Witnessed without a word by the world at work.