Friday October 14, 2011

Rain. And in the woods, a continual downward flight of leaves, meandering from side to side like all lost things. The rain falls harder.



    Lluvia! Lluvia! It was a chant
    sung at the top of our voices,
    croaking like frogs hopping
    from the rice paddies. Rain! Rain!

    Naked, our hallooing was no match
    for our scrawny bodies carousing,
    running through the monsoon
    downpour like scampering chicken.

    The rain at the edge of the woods
    is not the same rain where we got
    lost like cascading lilies rushing
    through boulders at the field’s edge.

    Rain rips foliages off their branches
    like surly gardeners cutting off twigs
    from blackened trees and bushes
    to prepare for a long, dreary winter.

    Lost in autumn’s mayhem, yellow
    leaves reel in a wild wind dance
    pitching them off to unseen crannies
    to rot in the rain like all things must.

    But it is not this dying we rue. Lost,
    gone in the fall of discarded days,
    we scarcely remember rain dances
    where we were naked, free, and happy.

    — Albert B. Casuga

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