Southern Rains

Winds drive rains south

like a pack of unbridled ponies

they race past my door

heads erect manes flying

eyes staring into night

a bullet gleam of light

the muscular rhythm

of joy in motion

becoming what one is

A second-hand book of poems

flails across my desk

Rumi Cavafy Valery Hardy

someone must claim it

as my vade mecum

I turn to its prancing pages

for guidance smooth as river rock

pitched to the squeals of nymphs

who rustle leaves on my walk

Death creeps closer as my companion

he offers no news no delightful talk

no signs of escape from the twilit ennui

he leers at me like an impotent libertine

he imagines a vitality found only in life

I would escort him to the door but the ponies

pound the brown earth with unshod hooves

teacups rattle on saucers Death has no rhythm

winds drive rains past him into the black night