like water

The tall palm sways slightly in the near distance, leaving its brush marks in the wet gray sky in witness to the labors of the rain. The gutters rush and the puddles ripple, circles within circles, the surface a skin of impact and consequence. Drop after drop, rain falling in loosed pearls and unwoven rope. Rivers down the rooftops, streams down the drive. Cold enough to feel alive, old enough to know better, I cast off coils of breath and smoke, blessings to each direction, offerings up to generosity of the storm. Like stone I am deceptive in my stillness, like fire I am all bite and appetite. The rain takes the shapes it’s given, moving through the world like water. 

I’m not much for learning lessons. I’m no fan of the ephemeral. The world works its insides out, the world plays it close to the ghost. I wake up and climb the knotted words, eyes open to the inevitable remnants of the self. The skull a bowl, the brain a sponge, filled with sops and dollops spilling out into the day. Death a threat that doesn’t even mean it. The bones another Babel tower waiting to be something else. The tide of mind, sometimes playful, sometimes deadly. Sometimes it’s just another spell to hold my gaze in place as the self sheds its skin, a rainy day, a useless husk. Smoke staining tooth and lung, another fire with pinned wings, another legion moving on.

The last of the day comes in greens and grays, spring fresh and winter grim as the sky flows and dims. The rain graces the atmosphere, stirring pots and filling dishes, whispering secrets into the flesh of the earth. A drizzle of house finches spill to the ground, filling belly and gizzard before facing the cold, damp night. I sit and smoke, I sit and dream— I might as well be sleeping. Dozing in one uncertain skin or another, filling whatever vessel opens its eyes, turning naked and fearless in the depths of the ever shifting earth. The old songs wear the new songs, our voices the echoes of the singers before, ripples on the surface or shapes made from clouds. This story not a story but the shape of the landscape it takes and changes soft and slow. This name not a name but the sound of something said long ago without a soul in sight.