FOUND POETRY-

from Rain: A Natural and Cultural History

by Cynthia Barnett

​

Everyone knows that,

like the letters of the word,

rain has an edge.

 

Those suffering from gloom, mania, or joy –

they have no shelter.

 

Yet we carry the presumption,

especially when we’ve gone without,

rain is the sex

 

coaxing flowers to vivid bud and bloom,

refreshing like breezes –

a rain-soaked Venus.

 

And he is perhaps the only one so deeply troubled by

the prospect of yellow trumpet flowers,

which bloom on delicate vines

in my part of the world. That picture is upside down.

 

Hidden deep below, an undertow at the ankles.

The living roots have grown huge.

 

Clouds grow impossibly heavy, white-grey mist swirls before me.

 

Born of the same batch of flying fireballs.

I stepped outside in a cauldron of clouds

and vowed to fight back.

 

Rain has nourished this jungle.

Sunny blossoms

dripping like showers

from its canopy, bit by bit.

 

Dance barefoot,

breaking through the wispy clouds –

who, after all, dreams of dancing in dust?

 

I am not flattering you,

but I cannot look away.