If the hair on your head
heightens and heightens,
enlarging like the alarmed housecat
frazzled by herself–

and if the clouds that swim
between the curling ferns of our
sister, Mountain, swimming like
ancient phantom-mermaids, reach toward us–

and if the lizards, brown and
green, with knowing grins and lithe
bodies, dart and scale
the box air conditioner that bulges from outside the door–

then you (and me) understand
the non-complexity of impending rain.

We see the clouds get tired
of swimming so, and think
to come down for happy hour,

see the dry dusty lilies upturn
brightened faces and clasp
hands together for water,

see soon to come the popcorn
kisses against that tin
patio roof we’re under.

We couple this all with knowledge
of the trade winds that sweep
our side of the island; eeking and laughing
and slipping through palm and acacia and
guava trees, rattling great things like
coconuts and banana leaves (flapping
and fanning like Pharaoh’s slaves).

We know what this all shall mean–
raised hair,
low clouds,
lizards seeking higher ground,
popcorn popping on the tin roof,
a gusting breeze up and through
the open patio corridor
gusts which make no man safe
from the low descending swimming
rain–which begin to pepper
this piece of paper, smudges
of ink against the pinky–
we know that the book pages
shall get splattered and shrivel
crispy on the morrow–
we know that the rain and the wind
could wash it all away.

But we also know this:

that to leave too early,
to pack it up, too soon
would be the death of this poem.

And so much more’s the shame.


1 Comment on “Non-Complexity

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