Asia’s Rain

Thanksgiving is when
we celebrate
the abundance of our root cellar,
stocked with the abundance
of our summer garden:
bottles of beets and tomatoes,
and a straw bin filled with potatoes.

Thanksgiving is when
mom takes the greatest care
in cooking the roast
to show how grateful we are
that Spencer shot the elk
and we have meat for the winter.

Thanksgiving is when
we place a pitcher
of cool, clean water
in the center of the table,
the place of honor,
to show how grateful we are
that the pipes are not frozen
for three months solid,
and nobody has to haul
toilet-flushing water,
dipped from the irrigation ditch,
and nobody has to haul
a sled to the neighbor’s barn
to fill two five gallon jugs
with drinking water,
and the older kids
don’t have to go to school early
to shower in the gymnasium,
and mom and the younger kids
don’t have to share bathwater
that dad hauls home each night
in fifty-gallon drums
in the back of his truck.

Thanksgiving is when
there is central heating
instead of a single
wood-burning stove,
and most of the family
doesn’t sleep huddled around it
in the same room.

Thanksgiving is when
the roof is tightly shingled
and snow doesn’t fall in
through the cracks in the attic
and the gaping hole in the ceiling
in the corner of Spencer’s room.

Thanksgiving is when
I don’t have to search
in hungry futility
through bare cupboards
and eventually take a shotgun
out back to the pond
at the far end of the pasture,
throw a rock into the reeds
to scare up a mallard,
shoot it, not caring
that I am poaching
and the game warden lives
just up the road,
then fillet the breasts
so they will cook quickly
in a heavy cast-iron pan.

Thanksgiving is when
I enjoy cranberry sauce
with it’s odd bittersweet taste.

Leaves are falling now–
A small girl kicks them in the wind
As she runs homeward

Late autumn stands like kindling with its trees stripped bare.
One match in the right place will set them ablaze.
Winter will be averted for a brief, glorious bonfire of a moment.
Such a burning would allow winter to strike with a more cruel ferocity.
Winter would know that spring would struggle even more desperately from frozen ashes.

Autumn has a simple faith.
Faith is what enables autumn to dare shed its leaves.
Autumn lays itself bare to the ravages of snow, frost, sleet and ice of winter.
Autumn has faith that it can stand the ravages of winter.
Autumn has faith that nothing more malignant than winter lurks in the world.

Man has knowledge that transcends autumn’s faith.
Man prepares differently for winter.
In the harsh winter to come, faith may be broken.
Liars, thieves and cheaters will do anything to avert winter’s due.
In cold desperation one will strike the match that will burn the trees.
It may be done in ignorance of the consequence for spring.
It may be done with spite and malice.
Man is capable of destruction born from any reason, or none.

So man sits up at night, year after year, devising ways to protect himself from himself.
Man despises himself for his malignant capacity.
He despises himself for his own need and ability to thwart his own evil capacity.
Occasionally, in the midst of all his self-despising, man contemplates joy.

Joy, in the smallest measure, can offset the heaps of evil man piles up.
Man gathers the evil in isolated piles, far from the innocent trees of autumn.
The dead and dried leaves of despising are gathered into one place.
Evil can also be destroyed.
One match is struck and placed on the pile.
Man feels the brief moment of joy and warmth.
Evil is reduced to smoke and ashes.

The naked trees of autumn watch the scene from a distance in quite approbation.
Spring will come again in its own natural time.

Summer night begins
Inside the Tunnel of Love
Ends at the Freak Show

In a place where we found pleasure
In a past too deep to measure
When all the ancient tales were new
And all the seas were crystal blue
Long before Prometheus’ spark
Guided man from out of his dark
Caves where he crouched, cursed and hiding
From the Tyger, still abiding
In night’s forest, stalking, pacing
Dusty tracks his claws still tracing
In a valley lined with flowers
In a time unmarked by hours
Where the grasses practiced waving
Calmed by breezes, never raving
Never wilting, never dying
Sometimes shaded by the flying
Clouds of heaven all dressed in white
Cooled and warmed by day and by night
Where they poured their living showers
On the prairie’s magic flowers
There the flowers shared their stories
Wreathed in magic, ancient glories
Ancient builders, tales of power
Told by people of the flowers . . .
This is the place our souls first met
This is the time we won’t forget
This is where we were created
Sealed together, matched and mated
The poet sealed unto his muse
Never again to have to choose
But eternally to recall
As each life’s summer yields to fall
Dies in the winter, lives in spring
Memories each rebirth will bring
Of the beauties we inspired
Ashes woken, fueled and fired
Giving light and warmth to the peace
We first created to increase
Words like rain gives rivers water
Where our souls create a daughter

Is that sound my voice
which calls a seed to sprout
and flower
from the ashen ground?
Are those my tears
scattered round?
Remind me
were they tears of joy
or tears of pain?
Will anyone ever hear
my voice again?
My heart beats
in my fingertips
in my skin–
Is it a sin
to touch the flower?
to coax it with
a Master’s voice?
Does the flower have a choice?
My heart reaches out
to pluck it
from an ugly place.
And tendrils of the root
refuse to rise.
They grip the soil
hard and black–
I cannot put
the flower back–
But wasn’t it my voice
my tears?
Whose ground is this?
Did he ever call it a garden?
Or simply a place
to spit out seeds?