Talking To The Rain

Talking To The Rain

As I sit upon a rotting wooden porch listening,

I hear the words of falling rain dancing.

Across the surface once placid but now rippled,

Time the imaginary artist with cheeks dimpled.

It smiles at me across the void now breached,

Speaking of things it knows I can’t bequeath.

To promise things to others I no longer possess,

Is like creation urging eternity to acquiesce.

The winds I feel tug on my spirit to come,

To look beyond time’s spiderweb, to succumb.

But it’s not the time to surrender one’s persistence,

But to fortify one’s stance, and bolster one’s perseverance.

“Come let me show you,” the spirits chant,

Knowing full well to leave this place I can’t.

But I seek to know the hidden secrets it carries,

Ones often taunted by eternity’s emissaries.

“Be gone with you and speak of this no more,”

Orders the man of abundant years, seven score.

It’s not time to surrender my will, this human device,

Even though the glimpse I see may beckon and entice.