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?