I wanted to kiss you in that rain
You said the weather is angry and you like it
As you pulled up your hoodie in the desert
Wet, dark hair sticking to your forehead
Above your eyes that can’t be summed up in one word
You said they are green but that discredits their mystery
I never thought the weather was angry
It felt like passion to me but
Maybe anger and passion come from the same source
I don’t mind waiting for the rain to clear
I’m used to waiting and
The weather is changing and
At least now I know how the rain
Makes you more beautiful
I want to say thank you to something
but I don’t know what to call it.
Show me the fragments of knowledge
shared across cultures, countries, continents
through the ages the languages the world religions.
It can’t be some grand conspiracy
too many coincidences.
Each seeing, feeling the same concepts
writing the same thoughts in poetry.
It makes me believe
there is something.
When the missionaries in Utah asked
if I believe in God,
I told them I didn’t
understand the question.
There’s something I want to thank but
I don’t know what to call it.
Why do the butterflies dance in front of me?
Why does the wind whisper in my ear?
Why do the ravens fly over my head?
Why do the rocks support me?
Why does the sun beat down on me?
Why does the moon protect me?
They don’t do it for me.
It’s just part of their nature.
We make believe we are at the center of it all.
There was an extra boy.
When the others paired off, he was alone.
They chase him away.
Young lovers swim together in the current and the third wheel spins, waiting.
He follows them.
Maybe she will fall in love with the loser.
But she just floats, indifferent.
The man chases his friend away.
When it gets dark and quiet, the young couple cuddles.
They whisper in each other’s ears.
He gave up. He is cold.
Hmm. When the ducks pair off, do they decide who will die?
Stop to look at the trees
Hear the cars and trucks
Hustle and bustle In the distance
The grass, it moves
All of them in unison
If you walk by
In your own world
You don’t see the grass moving