Uncertain Weather

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/24/08

“I was born already old, naked,
Except for a large, soft hat, my eyes,
Cat-acute to a point beyond the domains
Of the four elements, being comprised,
As the best Bestiaries assure us,
Of lynx urine hardened into gems.”
The skies today, arrayed in innumerable
Translucencies of gray, say things like that,
Their outlandish quasi monotones
Bearing crotchety testimony of the blesséd
Fissure where reason is engulfed by revelation.
Perhaps it will rain, and our dry thoughts,
Like an old king awaiting death’s ransom,
Will dine happily again on silence and water.
Perhaps we will stop trying to number
The six million million million molecules
Of hemoglobin replicating
Syllables throughout our stormy bodies.
The old man cries: “Did you think that these skies
Were only grey with a chance of unseasonable showers?
Did you think that the twenty-thousand atoms
Emitting each molecule of blood,
Each one’s intricate thornbush structure
Perfected in every twisted thistle,
Would average out to average?
Did you think that the miracle of reading,
That tossing of tears into the air, to touch,
Each one, its particular drop of rain,
Would be but another mist made bland by thinking?”
The lynx cat peers at the sky, and marks his rock.
While we, amazed, now read the grey anew,
Finding the poem, because we have found it before,
Not spoken or written by any human being,
But by those skies, like these that hang above us,
Alive with both water and blood, and promising rain.

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