The Finding and Letting Loose of all the Winters Rains
At some time in the beginning
the call to arms did not have to travel far.
Just held down there, at our sides,
still, but always held ready shields.
Then just some way raised, they were only so far
did not have to travel upwards
and towards, but did.
Touched, the edges, rims jarred together, fingers grasped.
So, molten upwellings flowed, at that touch
and created a land bridge of deceptive footings.
For, as they crossed over into night still grasping,
they found the other end, flooded.
Heaven held heavy and then let go
from those four craters
the four million wet offsprings of all
those supposedly forgotten winter nights and days.
In doing so it pushed them,
separately, to either end of that bridge,
whereupon the spent children arms now limp
and aching from their holding, rejoined their sides,
to fall like the dead asleep, on those shields.
Storm raged, waters rose and although the upturned shields floated
it saw them washed off either end and a float away.
As the days and any nights prevailing winds would carry them north, west, south
and from the east, finally came one biting, numbing, cleaning, killing much.
Another shore, pushed upriver
some miracle of celestial outrage
and transcendental navigation washed them up,
beached in a renewed world,
awoken from it’s safer, less passionate slumbers.
Cold feet set down firm above the last, highest tide.
A risen sea level, never to return, a
after that deluge of me, you.
Could be St. Helena?
Cliffs reaching to a blue sky either side.
Yet, see a way up, to the greener lush uplands
off those virgin, feet-pressed sands.