|Small rainbow, Black Mountain|
When people see rain,
it’s “get the umbrella,”
“cancel the game,” “close the window,”
“my new hairdo!”
When rain comes to the wild grasses
they lay back like expectant lovers,
Gopis awaiting Krishna,
and it’s just the sky changing.
Just the gray massed clouds
becoming dragons and mermaids,
fragrant with the next field over,
jolly with surfeit of love.
And the Gopi grass hears one, two,
three splats on the head of the drum,
and then party! It’s Krishna, gaining momentum,
entering like the mayor in the small-town parade,
rolling in rain like the ship had come in,
drunk, timeless, out-of-grass-body
and in love with the rooted Earth.
July 9, 1992
|Blue Ridge Mountain rain|