poliphilo | The Weather Prophet

Here's a poem from 20 years ago- unlike anything I might (or could) write now.

THE WEATHER PROPHET

I stroke her dusty hair.

My hand drops to her shoulder.

Touching helps to quieten

The mind's unending palaver.

Whether we serve the flesh,

Our Indian teachers have explained,

Or rarify the spirit,

Still we are on the Way.

Reaching across the board,

My fingers touch her fingers.

My eyes detain her eyes;

I think of infinite distance.

High on his minaret,

Scenting the distant mountain snows,

The great king's weather prophet

Gives himself to the sky.

This is lovely.

why does it come and go?

*frustrated*

I haven't written anything in at least a year.

Thanks.

I don't know why it comes and goes. All I know is it's pointless to try and force it.

This makes me happy.

My eyes detain her eyes;

I especially liked that line!

Thanks.