This poem is not about the rain,
but it’s probably because of it.
In my mind, rain shouldn’t be wasted.
But I promise not to talk about it.
— the rain, I mean.
we all know what rain is,
what it does, the havoc it wreaks.
— the benediction it brings.
the feeling of sanctity,
in all things animate and inanimate,
though the latter category doesn’t really exist.
A rock is as much alive (I am sure of this)
as a squirrel dancing on a power line,
its compact, dense particles humming softly,
lulling us into thinking it is dead.
— like some people, in other words.
or well known institutions.
As a general rule, rocks are a lot more
subtle and dignified.
— which reminds me.
I remember a rock my father hauled down
from the Sierra Nevada fifty years ago
to use for added weight on a piece of equipment
he pulled through the vineyard with his tractor.
It was a long, narrow, folded piece of granite,
as beautifully speckled as a bird’s egg,
worn smooth over time by friction,
by the tough, polishing action of the soil.
In the winter the rock sat out in frost and rain.
— thinking.
or brooding, depending on the day,
depending on the mood I was in at the time
and the problems I was facing.
— all serious, you understand.
for I was all of seven or eight, or in my teens,
or married and in my twenties.
I used to greet the rock.
We would talk, through all kinds of weather,
and I would feel the rock with my hand.
By spring, we had both grown roots.
— like harmonious anchors.
wise, noble, moss-covered.
Today I am frequently seen carrying the rock
upon my back, through the streets of faraway cities.
I must admit, I have aged less gracefully
than my legless, armless friend.
Collected Poems
Also appeared in The Synergyst
Categories: Collected Poems
Tags: Harmonious Anchors, Memory, My Father, Poems, Poetry, Rain, The Synergyst
