Desert rain fell – thunder cracked,

lightning cracked the sky.  Shattered

pieces tumbled down as rain.  Shattered

peace will be restored again.

 

I forgot – that movement is forbidden.

Some Dive Mechanick told me time

and substance would never be

the same. Restoration – the second thing –

the cliché: “everything falls apart”

to a humming mass spread like autumn

leaves last fluttered in sunlight

and an apple-cider breeze.

 

Something He said reminds me

of you when He was forming locusts

or when we say on a hill, enjoying

bread and wine, watching the wheat sway

somber and gay in the fading sunlight.

You wondered if gods too danced.

“Shiva.  Nataraja.”  You said

I knew too much

then dissolved into the soil,

water, flesh; joined the grain

that swayed before me

growing and dying.

 

You cried over the bloodstained cloak,

rust among vermilion poppies.

Rolling hills crashed against your spirit;

you saw men fall – falling.  Chatter

laughter gas panic gutter choke –

lime light like a dream.

You would not let me burn it

in the fire.  Some things take

time.  The Earth must first heal.

 

We fell from the mountain tower –

babbling, gasping, accelerating,

tears from wind and smoke,

we fell

we fell

we fell

air screaming, stop stop stop

it is not too late.  But I had dashed

my foot against a stone, and

your waxen wings had long ago melted.

 

You emerged from the river

draped in light – I could not

separate time and substance.

It was not baptism, but your dress

fell away with falling sand

and returned when I could

no longer count the grains.  

Fingertips dripping, you held

my hand.  I felt myself

fall into light – spin shake fly –

focused without comprehension,

absorbed, reflected,

spreading everywhere at once,

shattered to be collected, restored, finally:

from many pieces, peace.