I’m sleepy today, so you get poetry. — Ed.
Condensation
Precipitation
Evaporation
Later, rinse, repeat.
The wind blows;
The storm clouds gather.
The Rains come
Followed by the inevitable
Scorching glare of the infant sun.
The sky is constantly falling.
It’s the cycle of tumultuous
And turbid renewal
That washes us clean.
The world renewed in the
Lethian forgetfulness of the eternal sea.
But weather-scoured, time-eroded, wind-worn
In their heedless raging constancy,
Do the mountains ever get tired
Of holding up the sky?
Filed under: Poetry
