Buzzed amid the lightening and thunder
the pelting plops of fat summer rain unconstrained
after years germinating in the dry reservoir of recent natural history.
I keep no company save myself
a garrulous hermit ascetic bon vivant a man about a town without pity
eager to sing the praises of anyone offering hope.
It’s a giving thing wells up when the fractured heavens let loose an ocean
washes away faint white lines etched in the dry dust of my face
a kabuki mask with painted tears traced upon a crying clown’s pancake makeup.
Like Ebenezer Scrooge on the day after
I have passed through Christmas Eve’s dark night of the soul
perhaps deserving some measure of redemption.
It’s a gift to myself
this morning this joy may fade like the dying storm
for now I am content mindful any gift from another is rare treasure.
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