From Where I Sit

The rain pours steadily from the sky, 

streaming downward in long beats 

kissing the leaves beneath the oak canopy, 

each leaf dancing in rebound, 

a symphony of soft silence,

as Nature pounds 

and whips 

ever so gently.

Yet,

from where I sit,

I feel a stagnant pool, inside, resides—

witnessing,

waiting for the next upwelling

to clear the grime.

Sideways now, 

it flows harder 

leaving only a continuous, 

ecstatic tremor of green 

on the forest floor outside the window. 

The hillside that stretches upward 

farther than my limited view can expand

mirrors the landscape of the heart 

staring back at it. 

It’s larger than it can gather from this snapshot in time— 

so much larger. 

The oaks shed pieces of themselves now 

as the gusts unfurl and guide

their evolutionary spring cleaning.

A constant force of ever-changing 

whirls, then dashes, 

subsides and then pushes 

lovingly

from

that

ever-nothing

dark expanse—

and glimpses 

of the brightest light beckon,

there,  

far-off,

within,

when I see with my other eye.