AMBROSIA
                          
              “Western wind, when will thou blow,
                  The small rain down can rain?
               Christ! If my love were in my arms,
                   And I in my bed again!”

                         -- Anonymous  

Beyond the lamp-lit room is a plangent rain
rescuing trees from their near-drought dyings
and I ponder the thousands of nights
of our separate sibilant lyings.

The western wind that now does blow
that down this rain may rain
blows not for us --  or too much so
shuttling shuttered pain.

Through colorful rooms we pass and greet
snug from the night's down-pouring
wrapped in un-twined un-twinned dreams
anchored in our unmoorings.

The thirsty grass and withered stalks
exalt the liquid ambrosia                       
while in dry and sighing rooms
we unmake our beds of roses.

Yet the steady mizzle is a stalwart hand
its rhythm a robust reminder
of the numbered thrum of dusks and dawns
which each of us is tendered --

and, easing a bit speaks in treacle tones
as earth's fissures mind their mending --
of hopes like rivers, and down river beds,                  
of the ends of beginnings of endings.

Copyright Julie K. Shavin 2009