At the edge, where the mesa meets the gorge
and the bridge is out of view, I met
the young man with infinite eyes
who stood below the darkening clouds
with a song of rain parting from his dry lips
and I watched his sung words take lettered shapes
on a sheet of lightning.
As raindrops, sparse at first, spotted the dry earth,
or rose again before reaching ground,
he told me that he landscaped in this manner,
needed to bring the tall pines farther down
the mountain, to bend the river below
into the same curve as his lover’s breast.
I watched the lightning strike the far rim of the gorge,
rock splintered, a vaporous smell of ozone rose
only to be swept away by the dust laden thunder—
then the rain fell. Heavy. Hard. It bit the arroyos
and the river bed as summer howled from the bottom
of that pungent, gusty breath.
About the author:
Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM. His poetry appears mostly on the web as he prefers to spend SASE and reading fee monies on flowers for his lover. To learn more about Kenneth, visit http://www.kpgurney.me/Poet/Welcome.html