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.