.
..
..
.
the Farmer Prays for Rain and
its atoms, its spheres/ come negligible specks,
sparks in proportion to/ a façade wavy as
sine curves, as... kestrels circling the Yonghegong.
As kitchen utensils or sharp blades of wheat
suspended in a shadowless clarity of
metaphysical illumination. As only
sparks from trails of radiant
birds soaring through ornamental planets...
immersed in light so absolute that its satellites
are now reduced to thin lines resembling a soft shoe,
its laces/ unruly as the moon is true. And its blue,
its azure heart, its actual pulsating blue, becomes
laced with minor flecks of vast shards of rain.
not white rain, or green-like-Prell-rain-- no.
Soft rains will come/ & letters from god, dropt. Still.
Ain't nothin' shakin' but the leaves on the trees.
--Marty Esworthy, 2010
