I am the rain that quenches the earth’s thirst,
a pregnant gift, no parturition.
The sound of happiness on rough stones,
the patter of heavy rain drops.
I am the wind that shakes the rain from the clouds
undressing, crumpling, knotting up souls.
I am the earth soaked with rain
where, clod after clump,
you place your tired, uneven steps.
I take leave in silence, without tears
while the breath of the hawthorn nears.
I let it be.
You cannot know how much frost
will blow across your grave.
I will protect you,
from sinking in the mud
because everything returns to where it came from.
Lone thistles in an evolving underground
turn into something else.
To renew oneself means to persist,
a vortex of indefinite atoms.
I am the blood, osmotic puppet,
elevator of metabolisms
that flows in the carousel of chemistry.
The moon too bleeds
if the sun bites her.
But it is not a wound of hate.
I have a backup constellation.