The Tears the Dark Sky Cried

The rain falls heavy
on the ground
around our home,

carving rivulets
down to the lake,
down to the stream
just below.

I have heard
the tears
the dark sky cried
all night

breaking into the snow,
taking ice
from the roofs
and landing in
puddle after puddle
a colding mud.

The wind has now come
to set the tears
on edge,

and I am left
warm inside
carving words
from the air

and sipping coffee
as the day
and my rest
grow old.

___


Ciao!

+Tom

Cold Bricks in the Monastery Church

The wind howls,
whipping her limbs
coldly around
the building’s bricks.
I feel her
pull them
over the walls like
tongues of ice
retreating in long
slow licks.
My neck chills
and shivers when
she chants
her wail.
I know
She is here.
I cannot see Her,
but O how I
know She is here

A Coldness

I reach down deep in the dirt
and there is a coldness.
Not the coldness of being rude,
but the coldness of rugged surviving.
Surviving against all odds;
surviving in the face of a
fierce and mighty foe.
Thistles grow like this.
Heather grows like this.
In the face of death,
some people grow like this -
grow towards deep
strength and coldness.
Standing on the edge
of the waters
the purple and the mist are
a ways off. They lift
me up and bolster me
from my heart.

Seals and gulls flop
and poke themselves
through the seaweed,
looking for treasures
and for things to do.
They are toughened by this.
They have saved themselves for
life and for death - being able
to play. They have saved themselves
from building bridges, and roads
and nuclear reactors.
They all slip, back into the cold,
surviving against all odds, against
the desire to overdo and subdue.
Against the desire to create monstrous
chaoses that they will become unable
to live without. And soon, unable to live
with. They slip through the golden
weeds, soaked with wet chill cold, and
are gone.