The light from the window is quite clear today,
but the garden I see is a memory of what it
used to be thirty years ago; for all I know, I'm
almost blind, they may have cemented it over
and painted it green, Styrofoam trees and plastic
flowers, and thee is no need for a gardener.
Do I hear raindrops falling? Is it getting darker?
Or is it rats scratching to get at my inert flesh.
I have been dreaming of rain for thirty years, a
tropical deluge foaming on the sea, flashing lights,
thunder; each man frozen in a frame, no thoughts
everyone only absorbed by the eye of the storm.
When the storm passed the deck was cool to walk
on, a new clarity of thoughts, before routine sat in.
When we reach shore, I will leave this ship and
climb a mountain, to see and experience everything
anew. I've waited for rain and the eye of the storm
to come and make me whole and young again.
