First Rain

Come quick! the rhyming steps advance Entrancing all who follow, seeking Solitude from all their hollow fears, Perchance, to sneer once more into another’s fate And say, “It cannot be so bad for me, If this lad’s life is much like mine, where fortune Sits upon his shoulders, boulders! e’en, no burden Would bestow except, of course, his long discourse Of self-perpetuating woe.” And if my rhythm staggers as a drunkard down the lane, No thought I give, and seldom would refrain From simply, always, too long, venturing On and on and on, on down the page With tirades, raging over what new love was so entwined Upon this heart of mine, a fickle fetter, every letter wrought In tears of stone, No! don’t bemoan me friend, For not quite always does this way describe the end A single curtain standing, part the veil and climb Away from this most ordinary day into a better place Where rhymes know more than reason, every season Under Sun and Moon is Autumn, fading into Spring, And every night a pleasant stroll in June. Where Rain falls, swiftly passing Magic Crawls the beast that none will name And sooner lie and quick deny Than humbly admit its shame “Too little, too soon, too late, too much!” cry all the troubled thoughts within my brain and yet, and even so, this hunger! wondrous, awe-inspiring need of what was never known can come upon me suddenly and seat me on its brazen throne. Soon passing, like a fevered nightmare Quaking in reality, amassing Simple logic within reason to Deny! Deny! Still, the steps will tremble As a ring of harp-strings pluck away Who is to judge this beauty, And, so judging, turn away? By Mark Burton January 5, 2005, 7:30 A.M.