to realize
we're familiar
with the feeling we get
in the tips
of our fingers
just before it
starts to rain.
How comfortably blasé
as we peer
from a window
to watch as a few more
ominous clouds
approach;
how normal it is
for our prim little corner
of the world
to go intermittently dark
and askew;
and how amenable
we can be
to disliking
what we're seeing
when we deem it coherent
with our poor,
tortured bodies:
these consistently abused
but tenacious lands
within us
which periodically
get soaked, and then
dried off a little,
but will never be offered
the chance
to start new.
