Rain For The Wicked

I don’t ask much of the universe
Don’t pour libations,
nor face the eastern sun,
or the western wind-
in salutation .

I don’t ask much of the universe,
don’t stay a while to listen to the trees sing,
or the rain clean.
The leaves have turned without me seeing,
stomped on caterpillars that hoped to be butterflies.

I didn’t ask much from the universe,
didn’t sit down by the fire,
listening to sages on secrets buried in the soil,
whispered by the wind to the trees.
Simply, I am a lost son of the soil.

In my failures is my fear,
that my punishment lies in what I have done,
or failed to do.
That in my ignorance was my loss.
That in good things is my trap.

The universe granted me a jewel,
I look at it in doubt.
To the western wind I whisper,
“Find the rightful owner,
I’m afraid I am not”
To the rains I now revel in,
for maybe in their falling shards,
is the name to the owner.

To the jewel I cling to still,
for beauty was alien to me
And as all beautiful things attract,
now my eyes can’t move past or from.
For me I want to keep,
but what if therein is the trap?

4 Comments

  1. There is a way your pieces tug, inexplicable but it is there!
    So many times we become alien to so many things, yet retribution isn’t quite a price we’d love to pay, atleast not willingly.
    Your poetry is something else🔥🔥,
    Give us more,
    Good work ma’am✨

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I am so happy you took time to read it. I am at least hoping to be able to stop and smell the flowers. And maybe say thank you for this gift that I keep looking at wondering if it really is mine.

      Thank you so much again.
      More is coming! Your wishes, my orders!

      Like

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