je ne sais pas

Home sick or homesick. Old English inspired something in me (and not the 40oz, as I wish I could even stomach it) . . .

Patter, splatter
A mid-afternoon rain
Light on the face, coloring skies
Stay in the lines
Jump side to side
But leave . . . the puddles for me
My 5-year-old known
For the time being

And the child grows up
Youth fails to dust
A man – born to be level
He must
Follow & lead
The child needs
Rebirth from a death – encircle to sea

The water weighs all
Splatters the wall
Littering light; as sun succeeds the fall
traveling weight
with the rise – evaporate
And take with the shimmer
The light just found littered
A place to find youthful eyes
When colors change age, patter and grow

Be reborn from a death
Reborn from a step
From nature,
Time will go on, yet still

For a moment . . . still . . . kept

-tiscal.