Easter, March 27, 2005

Awakening to the cloud of sonic rain,
that surrounds,
immerses perception.

Outside, the water falls
on the dry ground,
a futile gesture of the sky.

For the earth's surface
never will drink
while weeds choke the feeble soil.

And yet,
The weeds cannot harm the tree.
And the young morning glory,
that winds itself
around, around, around
with its roots among the grass
shall rise from the soil
in an eruption of ever-new bloom.

And the grass will reach,
covered in unpenetrating dew
and escape the earth as a myriad arrow,
with a spiral path.