My shaking knees
will join your many footed song.
For all around I hear the echoes,
see morning’s gleam across the window—
a screen set in front of me.
With blips and bleeps and splashed up soot,
the ebb and flow of cloud and sky
reminds me of a feeling felt, an unblocked glowing surge of self.
But steeped behind the splattered glass,
where thoughts are dread and fear is met,
there on the ground where I once sat,
no thoughts can come.
No thought will come
but the slow, antagonizing call
of the wish-washed thought that begat it all.
For there is no proof, none to be found,
in sky, in sea, beneath the ground.
That gathering storms and burdened clouds
will change by their proximity.
Oh join me, join me, join me now
where wetted thoughts make whispers free,
and Let Rain’s fountain gather round
your hoard of unwashed misery.
Cloud comes round,
with whitish face and still grey thoughts.
He heaves his sighs against the ground,
His foot can waltz a soul around.
And slowly, you will hear the call
of rain and man and shaking knees.
And find the world’s been left behind
the dance that happens in the trees.