The Passing of February into March
Let things grow
A little wild.
Let the little pattern
emerge.
Let that satisfy.
Sand
the rough ‘go’ of it.
Sit quiet with the sheep
on a stump
that you have
sat upon
for so long it rots
underneath
while the barn nearby
racks and wanes
at the decrepit end of a 100 years
of bad physics
and worse design.
There is a reason
it all ends with a February whimper
and the high keening of spring peepers,
ends with the accelerating
pelt of rain
down a tin roof
through the gutter
into the rain barrel,
its velocity
perishable,
indeterminate,
old-fangled,
irretrievable
and unremarked upon
until now.
I don’t know
nor do I need to know
sources
or ebbs and flows,
or recharge
and discharge rates.
And why not?
Do we ask
where grace
and the future come from.
Better to be
than to know.
Much better.
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Love your opening lines:
“Let things grow
A little wild.”
Kevin