9696

Oh tiny verse
where from you come?
Plucked from the air
to sing –
But dancing, stupidly,
by their feet
you stay dumb?!

Ah, soaking rain of air,
why wet them now?
The land laps long
your fall.
And yet through parched
and arid days
your pour reigns low…

And all through this
my sun you purse!
No utterance
from those scorching lips.
No calls for rain
or songs of verse:
A silent light –
too distant, even,
for my boisterous love
to reach.