farmhouse rain

it came quiet like

a drifter through our opened windows
it played the hair on my arms as i wrote
ran my skin and skipped over my freckles
trying not to trip
on its way up my shoulder
yelling my name like an old best friend
on a grade school playground
it had so much to tell me

before i knew it had arrived
the humidity broke
and i smelled it
it dried my tongue
and the spring on the screen door stretched
with that summer screen door spring stretch sound
and there
was a pretty girl, pointing at the sky

When I tell you this

you have to try to understand
how hard it is for me to leave
a glass of wine on a wooden table with a notebook,
with the burnt blue hues of night
settling down around me

but when she opened the screen door
and said, "it's storming,"

our feet stepped together
from asphault we left it all
the farm house and the drive way
toward the woods we made our way

your mind might sense like mine
it is a certain life
that announces its coming
in the giddy pitch of summer rain

and at the edge of our yard

we looked up to find
the evergreens were saying grace amidst crisis in the atmosphere,
that thick skin suspended above earth
was reaching to grasp this forest and shake it awake.
in their reverence we caught the trees,
many hundreds abreast
lifting their prose to the changing wind
and pointing upward
urging us to notice as we pass
on these nights they shout with us
promising, just someday, they'd run too,

we are pulled under
by the current of it all

"it is storming," she cries
these were the same words
written lightly on our unconscious chests
the early day Artemis laid us down in her field, with a promise.
so I sprint the lawn
and yell to the hidden stars
drag my hand through wet grass

this, this is the darkness of a midwest ocean
I have swam since young manhood
"it is storming," she could hardly believe
as she called back to me
you'd think we were children of drought

our faces are the half grins of scandal
born in rain clouds that keep to the mountains most times,
an impetus conducted on the wind
that crawls your skin and lifts your chin to attention,
the moment that calls you to priesthood,
to run to the clearing past the far trees
and prepare communion

we have smiled at many august suns
knowing they burn in the innocence of duty
and would have you believe
its where their story ends

but we know better
we the denizens of tall-grass beds
that from our backs
see switch and milkweed
finger the wind for trace of thunderheads
wishing abduction was in their cards

come evening the rightness of day
gives way to the confliction of night
and our skies erupt

a little violence we love

already shirtless
and shedding the rest
i'll do what i can
to get closer

the road we run is a narrow enclosure
draped in a tall tree lean,
it tugs your pupils wide
before the open air of our field

this road is gravel and dust like only the kids of country know

and i don't know how to touch you

you've born a summer dress
through the heat
now speckled with the start of all this
and you don't realize it
but you've suspended your hands just above the tallest weeds
like you're telling the dirt
be patient
its coming
i promise

this is our movement
the hundred bars we like the best.


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