prior to sleep, prior to the storm

when the calling is complete
the rain shall
again burst forth

what we mean (when we say)
the calling is left
for oblique interpretations

as etched messages revealed
in rock, dirt, sand......
whirl with power outside
of how much strength breathes

through the hand that reaches
out to touch the one who
shares the setting orange sun-

no way of fully knowing
will rise once more,
splashing calder colors
by the opposite shore-

how the widened river
runs unbeknownst
to willow leaves drifting

integrating both the origins
and destinations--
while wondering

how hearts on fire transpire
to take all the time they need

raw silky dough bakes until
tapping on the exterior
opens the door to explore

the sweet glutinous steam
swirling- to make known
how subtle tastes like

raspberry relics, rocking
the rafters, without remorse
a no nonsense approach

spirited, we rise
parallel to lengths of french breads
their stories- always following

the breaking- the bursting bubbles
simple secrets sailing out of the bag
cats scratching back door screens

the sky painted peach and beet tones
so close to sunset you are ready
to don your lightest nightgown

play chess with an imaginary friend
following the cue of your last game
of pool, realizing no one in their
most reasonable self could calculate

if the summer storm will indeed
take place late, or at all
late summer sky reduces our need
to know- we simply look north northwest

waiting on weather without agenda
we do triumph in the randomness
of this equation, singing

"you are my sunshine" as grandma
so close to the beginning, we no longer
need to know how this season will end

sky now the deepest magenta, we receive
the nectar of our ability to remain present
sky gazing, as if our life depended on it

words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15