I rise over the wailing reeds and trembled thorns, calling

for my mother over that blank horizon when I realize— I am alone,

realize that I am the only rainmaker hanging

over this village, but I am not ready to rain quite yet— not ready to join my brothers and sing our dirge of sun's regret,

sun's readjustment to the breeze, the ease

of singing and the ease of dropping into the puddle of black—

and then the cycle continues

in the form and fashion of an old gale, an old gale

that doesn't regret the trees it has torn, thrown from it's sediment, plastered through the foundation of

bricks and stones, pots and pans, dolls and drawers,

drawers of clothing that never seemed to fit quite right,

the way they tugged and pulled at the insides as if

they were crawling into themselves every time a voice was raised,

a voice raised in static dysfunction and sterile regret,

regret that the old gale can't quite feel, can't quite heal, resounding against the wails

of a child that just wants to get out, get away, get something that resembles love and tenderness.

Perhaps there is something more to life than someone laying beside you, some defense

mechanism of the child that never once felt

the embrace

of that resemblance, resemblance of pooled blood and caution tape

strewn against the soft pallor of the baby's breath,

breath that housed every droplet of the men that came and went,

laid a while, got what they needed and hit the road again

to find that new viridian green glass sea, the sea that might make them feel a bit more holy than they do now.

How holy can you feel with him?

How holy can you feel when your love resounds across the fields that those manic horses trample,

screaming at the lord of the mountain to scorn you

with his next passing glance, passing grace that dances

off his pelt of rosemary, harrowing rosemary and

foxglove that knocks you back with the embrace,

the embrace

that you once knew, once craved,

that only now seems to make you feel like you're being

raped before your own eyes,

eyes that can't seem to comprehend the fact that

this just isn't the way that things should be.

We were never wind-wakers, for we are the clouds,

we are the wind,

the wind that carries us high above

that village dance,

the dance that circles the flames that make us

cough and sputter in such glistening disdain,

the persuasion of the sun begging us

to not give up our cycle, our orderly flow on this mortal planet,

the planet that can never comprehend itself enough to excuse the destruction it goes under from the outside,

crumbling and cracking with millennia of protestant tragedy.

I want you to know, I never wanted to be a cloud.

But you cannot run from what the lords offer you, the ache in your bones

that they bestow upon a young child that feels like there is just no other way,

no other way to love another man

without feeling that sultry pain,

something so sultry and poised with it's nighttime gale of

bodies pressed,

bodies loving one another as they press tenderly to one side,

fiercely to another,

the embrace

of love combined, love intertwined, love non-existent,

and the bodies rise—

they rise up into the sky,

rise over the wailing reeds and trembling thorns,

rise over the village and

finally

begin to pour as one.