Nocturnal Winter Rain Resounding
What does it mean? Then. At night. Suddenly. Upon. Upon what? The boulevards and asphalt and holiday lights blue green, yellow, red, and the coyote den somewhere impossibly distant and camouflaged by the wondrous and strange woodlands. On rooftops that are hats for houses and on the good drivers and the bad ones, on the snow laden meadow where the fox goes by and I have memories of summer days when the praying mantis flew, and the birds crooned and the azure sky hovered like an angel itself.
Rain. Rainy. Rains. Nocturnal storms. Winds. I must have once looked out my window decades ago by hardwood floors with that oval carpet and my toys and books and posters, yes looked out at the winter ravine. Orphan psychically gifted, double crown and crown chakra open. In the house alone, guided by soft yellow lights and night light and spirit singing rueful songs. Evergreens across the way atop the hill. Knowing myself I would have stood and watched the drops against the glass, drops like tears upon the windows and sills. Nobody is listening but I am. Always. All this by paving stones and kidney shaped pool with black cover and blue water bags with red openings where you put the water after summer, all long gone. And the hills where the deer travel past sometimes at dawn.
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer. His most recent work, Book of Love and Mourning is the third compilation of prose poems and landscape pictures.
