You smell it on the breeze
sweet scent of wet piñon and red dust
blowing off an advancing thunderhead.
When the towering anvil arrives
it casts bruised shadows,
pelts all with frozen rain
and thunders into your core.
You call on the Beloved
hold steady through the storm.
Parched desert softens, convictions evaporate.
A bird chirps, and another…
You lift your head to realize
the relentless pounding has stopped.
Birthed in its wake, a cool, balmy breeze.
And the scent that teased you before
swirls in your being like a dervish.
Awwww, I can smell and feel the rain in this beautiful poem.
❤️✨?
Thank you, Kelley. You definitely know that smell well, both on the inner and outer. Blessings to you, dear soul.
“When the towering anvil arrives, it casts bruised shadows…” Poetry at its finest, Lesley. The poem with the juxtaposed title wraps it neatly into the perfect package — a true gift to your readers. I always love the powerful use of in-your-face nature to explain the hidden nuances of our lives, and you do this so well in this poem. You pique the senses with your imagery and use them to vividly insert the passion for the Unseen. It’s easy to see where you live your life through your poetry, both on the outer –red dust piñon forest– and the inner — it’s all just Monsoon Lovemaking. Bien hecho, Lesley.
Thank you, Rudy, for your brilliant elucidation on this poem. You are a good measure for me about whether or not my poems make sense, and of course you always springboard into yet more spiritual beauty.