Shifting gray the desert day overflows,
light patter of soft chaotic refrains
abridge the fog of fleeting days. Rain slows,
barely seen, my life is drips of quatrains

cooling need, breathe bequest to live again.
I need to understand! How ripened Man
does not rejuvenate with winter’s rain;
surely illusions die, I feel so wan...

Rainfall, heed! The drip of seeds fall freely,
assignation comes so dearly, we must
open mouths to absorb truth ideally,
by revolving meanings of words unjust.

I believe we dance in rain’s true meaning,
while fogging rapture’s convening gleaning.

Erin Moen
1/14/04
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