once i floated over this life
as the wispiest of clouds
on a morning drenched lake
fishermen glanced
but paid no mention
save the prayer of gratitude
to the god of summer leisure
i was that soft april rain
that barely shook the petal
the softest feather floating
through the trees only to become
the gosling's pillow
but hurt, that wretched volcano
came bellowing like a senator
and touched us all as a troubadour
singing for his pension
and this, his song, i've taken up
as cloak against the light
illuminating the bones of my soul
and i've become hard, harder
but not yet brittle as hardtack
more the day old needing
that extra dollop of butter
i'm now yet not now always
the thunderclap that chases men
to shelter, boats to port
women to preachers
and death edges forward
i've become that june downpour
that spoils the roses, flattens the lilies
like talons clutching the last feather
perhaps this the purpose of time
to wind the watch backward
remember the gentler day
and lay down in its soft valley
and yes, lay me down
lay me down where light yet flourished
and feed me too a friend
without the coy of butter
