Saturday, November 11, 2006

Rain, Rain, Rain

Oh God, let it rain. Let it pour a rackety loud heavy crashing sluicing roaring down rain. Let it rain all over. Let it rain like a monsoon in which one must bow one’s head to breathe. To avoid aspirating rain.

Let it thunder on the rooftops and thunder over the rooftops and crescendo on the horizon and fill the rivers and ponds and pools. Let the frogs and the toads cavort. Let the frogs and the toads crawl out of the ground and copulate in their amicable, ambidextrous, polymorphous, sticky-fingered loud masses in all the low places.

Let all the earthworms crawl out of the ground and sacrifice themselves on the roadways and on the driveways and on the sidewalks and in the parking lots of the world. Let them hump out of their holes and skitter across the concrete, smelly as the earth unearthed. Turned over. Brought out. Rude smelling and visceral. The black wet earth expressed in the pinks and browns they carry with them like real flesh and blood creatures. Like the earth itself alive and moving and crawling out of itself to breathe, sheathed with flesh and blood. Like the earth alive and automotive everywhere one looks. Congregating like worshippers come out of their holes of a Sunday for example, all moving together randomly across the manmade surfaces. Everywhichway, like earthlings on a Sunday morning. Like any spring morning.

Let the crocuses arise, unfurl. Let the daffodils explode. Let the green grass green to neon here, where it stands. Stands straight up in all this rain. Glistening. Trickling.

Let the forsythia start forth like a. Like a sudden sunrise. Like a pointillist sunrise here in the grass. Here remarkably over the lawn.

Here remarkably on this planet. Where the sun only by projection belongs. Where its photons, spewing, may from a distance fall.

Oh, let this spring come. Let this spring rain rush down and down over us all out here on the edge of the universe. Let this rife rain runnel and riot and roustabout and ravish and wreck and seethe and scythe and sarabande and serenade and simmer and swelter and socialize and seize and swoop and swirl and shhhh.

Shhhh until. Until we can see again. Until the world becomes distinct again. Until the sun appears again. And everything is new. And everything is bright. And everything is green and yellow and red and blue and orange and purple. And whole. And right. And made. Again. After all that winter monochrome. All that ice-locked winter gray.

Until the sun comes up again bright as a heat lamp. Bright as a spotlight. Bright as the flame of a welding torch. Bright as a tanning lamp. Bright as a nuclear event. A terrorist nuclear event. Bright enough there on the horizon that it damages the eyes to look at it. Makes the eyes smart and water. Water welling up in them, forced to the surface by artesian pressures. By geological pressures that are like the pressures of mind. Of mind in matter. Of God’s mind forcing the water out everywhere. Wringing it out everywhere. To dazzle in the sun.

No comments: