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Black Rooster Crows |
1.
Inside known and unknown body
they share the years,
listening to the rain.
Bent over her chrome wheelchair,
her eyes remove his hands.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
Held hands are meant to follow
in parallel motion. Touching,
their eyes tie together bone.
A continuum lances
the squeezed blue horizon; across fields
rain drifts downward, riding white light.
It’s not momentary.
Their sight reaches — ongoing.
Where their eyes meet
intimacy splashes into river’s flow,
in a moment, it's their heartbeat.
2.
Yesterdays entwine;
coldness lifts foggy breath,
rain hangs below whitened clouds.
Passing through rumbled air,
raindrops patter pulse.
Their gaze speaks —
socks bring shoes.
In summer the umbrella
sings shaded sunlight.
In winter rattled rain
drums their umbrella-song.
Splatters laugh on puddles today;
the hour doesn’t leave time to dance.
They don't waste a breath
on buried bulbs.
They’ve learned bulbs offer
what they know from last year.
Daylight or midnight,
the black rooster crows,
when he wants to;
he doesn't need a sunset
or a sunrise.
He owns the courtyard.
copyright 2020
Ronald
Peat |
