A kind of rewrite // The desert & her rain

art, writing

Photo: personal

The rain is falling. The melody of his decent permeates everything around. He pours down hard, with urgency, spilling into the earth, diving towards the ground, as if the two of them were epic lovers reunited after long separation. Long it has been. The desert has not seen her rain all summer, but there was another suitor. The sun has courted her without relief. At first he brought her light, then warmth, at last he gave her heat, then only grief, for he was not the one she yearned for. Scorned was the sun and scorching was his fury. Deaf to her pleas, he burned her flesh and did not spare her beauty. His final gift to her was death. Critters, birds, frogs scattered across her plains, all dead, bitter reminders of all that is unrequited in this world, all that we dread.

When earlier tonight the air grew still and thick, I knew rain had come back to her and readied for a flood. For hours nothing stirred. There was no wind or movement in the night, even the stars had hushed their glow while all the rest laid low in quiet anticipation.

At last he had arrived. He swept her up into his arms, as if no time had passed between them. He spilled across her body with abandon, covering every inch of her and leaving none exposed. He told her of his love and of his sadness, begged she forgive his absence, eased her pain, then pulled her back to life and clear of madness. He kissed her face, caressed her skin, nourished her wounds and wiped away the death, then he made promises again he would not keep and hushed her with the sweetness of his breath.


On Legacy


Words can hang round the neck like an indurate noose
Or like strands of pinned butterflies, powdery light
Struggle or not, you won’t shake them loose
They can smother a man if he tries to fight

Trying to peer ahead only adds to the strain
Blind bats still know best where their home is
So stop taxing your eyes, they won’t help you guess
What that word etched on your stone means

On Memory

miscellaneous, writing

What happens to a memory when it
Is pulled away by time, which like a river
Flows through, as if it were a cave of granite
Washing away its walls minute by minute.
Time like a thieving scoundrel in the night
Covets the sacred rooms within our minds
Asserts itself, intending to collect what are
Our soul, yet flesh is all it finds.