The Impossible

It’s raining

I should be changing my oil, but I am

sitting here

Barley and me

curly white dog pressed into my hip

windows wide open –

a cool cross breeze is nudging past screens and wood blinds that watch the daylilies and Jacob’s beard

it is quiet, but for the sound of falling rain.

The universe is humming, you know. Energy spinning in circles, throwing itself in and through worlds upon worlds

from the beginning

sometimes on the farm I swear I heard it

that low rumble

at the top of the hill under a billion stars

just me and the fields. and the silence

when all was still, it began like a barely audible hum, warm, low,

after all the crickets and mice were silent, and the frogs had given up for a time,

there it was

I thought it was just my body alive

and maybe so…

but now I am wondering if it was something much older

you know ~

the creation of it all

the bang of beginning, still whirling and echoing

through time

Not possible, you say?

Maybe not.

But I have often heard the impossible.

This entry was posted in crickets, Poetry, sound of rain and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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