Not less than rain am I
What thought of flood or mud endured
when flung from ample glandular?
“Secrete!” commands the cloud.
“Release it all and fall to earth,
unleash your fine and furied mirth.”
Of life nor death but both
and that which strikes the heart of it
through an endless flowing forth
Suck up what can be drunk
Dip your eager, root it swelling.
Yes, sate your dipsomania.
Once flung, the deed is done
the wetting fills the gaps still dry
calm falling from a patient sky.
For now, a beat sustained
’tis but the mood and form of day
and tends to match her thirstiness.
But come the night of storm
When touch is lost with ordered land
No cloud will lend a calming hand:
A mood mercurial to varied motions lend
an amorous discourse earthward bends:
of sudden pace it abandons form
to whipping gale spinning uttering thundered breathless patterns pounding
lightnings’ tonguish flame in wettest
omni-operant flicked and folded
and meets her gaping, groping
in old and ancient passion play.
“Too much! But More!” the ground it cries.
“Our mouths entaste in gulps of you
Let us resting, digest it full.”
Then dawn dips in again,
Absorbing night’s emissive mission.
The land is clear and still.
The sky, and I, reposed fulfilled.
and new, fine feature geologe.
Not less than she, do I
this etch upon the face of things
does flow-a river, freshly born.
To where she goes, do I
from whence she came, like rain, is round
and wrung from sky spectacular.
Yet night is nought, but mark
’tis on its way around again
to give its gust(o)racular.
Not less the rain am I
Nor less the wind, and storm unleashed
Obeying throbbing pulsity.
To spend itself again, again
In hallowed-born necessity.