The Aspiring Bard

Drought breaks. Sweet rain pours down In grey, Refreshing torrents, Floods the blasted earth And parching skin. Dry summer runs In muddy trickles From face And neck And arms... And I emerge A cleanly newborn thing... To wander home, Slowfooted, In the rain.

The mind is like A restive moth That darts in circles Through the night, Probing old And newer things With languid beat Of roving wings. At length to find The overlap - A place where 'Now' and 'then' collide. It circles down With easy strokes, To fold the wing And sleep.