Creation

We drank the time in azure cups,

in the old attic of our house

and watched the rain pour down in torrents,

deluge the world in April currents.

The smell of hail, the taste of salt,

no words between us, no tales told,

our silence kissed the storm hello.

The skies hung low, enfolding us.

The rain blurred out the vast expanse,

drew closer the horizon line,

its thread entangled in our hands

for us to play with it like cats.

Do you believe we ever had

the primal innocence for that?

To play like cats with time and fate?

To pounce on sprouting grass in mire?

Maybe it ebbed along the way?

Either way, on that day,

the gods in their mad grace

embraced us in the April rain,

and water galloped down the roof,

and on the ground, and soaked the dust,

inured to violence and time lost,

and turned it into clay —

from which I shaped my name.