miles and miles of rainy road
roll before me like Venetian canals
I have nothing but choices:
how to steer, how to think in the clouds.
laudate, how to praise.
highway medians and swollen plains
lie bunched and spongy, receiving all that falls.
I pause- – – to teach myself trust
in the green-soaked evening
I make my own happiness
and I become the blackbird at rest
sitting in a tree with closed wings,
dripping wet songs
receiving all that falls.