having some serious trepidation
about the weatherman’s calls for rain
you end up standing alone beside
burning buildings and feeling
merely out of place
you find yourself making myths
about the gooey innards you’d keep rhythm by
when the night goes silent
and your boots become pieces
of the stiff and sleeping ground
you start to wonder whether you may have been
a river or an ocean
full of squishy squeaky struggling life
or whether your forebears had
the good sense to send you
any hidden message about your ultimate bright wet meaning
or some signal that you could
someday make yourself
the stolid limbs of some hardy bush
secure in knowing that they remain connected
to something, somewhere,
when the sun comes out and shows you anything.
