rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Soft Rain

Tiny raindrops fall for hours, the kind of rain that sounds dry, like grains of sand falling on paper. The drops are cold, each leaving a sharp chill on the skin. After a while they accumulate and begin to fall from leaves and pine needles and the eaves of the house, and the night fills with drumming, but still the sandy sound persists as an undertone. Even through clouds the bright moon sheds enough light to dimly reveal the world, slicked plants and reflective pavements. The piercing cry of a nighthawk sounds again and again. I grow cold but cannot bring myself to return indoors. The soft rain has drowned my senses, and I stand soaked, breathing the damp as though I had become a piece of this landscape, absorbing sustenance from the sky as does the dark soil.

Sunday Verse

The Renewal

by Theodore Roethke


What glories would we? Motions of the soul?
The centaur and the sibyl romp and sing
Within the reaches of my imagining:
Such affirmations are perpetual.
I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs,
Yet, like a tree, endure the shift of things.


The night wind rises. Does my father live?
Dark hangs upon the waters of the soul;
My flesh is breathing slower than a wall.
Love alters all. Unblood my instinct, love.
These waters drowse me into sleep so kind
I walk as if my face would kiss the wind.


Sudden renewal of the self- from where?
A raw ghost drinks the fluid of my spine;
I know I love, yet know not where I am;
I paw the dark, the shifting midnight air.
Will the self, lost, be found again? In form?
I walk the night to keep my five wits warm.


Dry bones! Dry bones! I find my loving heart,
Illumination brought to such a pitch
I see the rubblestones begin to stretch
As if reality had split apart
And the whole motion of the soul lay bare:
I find that love, and I am everywhere.

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