Notes from a Summer, III

Wind from the west, wind

From the east,

Birds drawing faint

Lines across my vision—

They’re still singing so I guess

It won’t rain too long.

I’ve been trying to lay these

Thoughts down, hold

Their heads and set them

Gently in the dirt,

Let the streaking rain

Pierce through them and shoot

Into the earth like roots.

Being good is hard.

It constantly requires the more

Difficult of two choices

To be made. 

I could keep trying to plant 

These thoughts, or

Take off my clothes and run

Wild in the rain. Slowly,

The clouds are wisked apart--

Swept east, 
Swept west.