Wednesday, December 5, 2007

August Rain

August Rain

A scorching August morning
in the Sierra foothills,
I swam in a Wedgwood-blue
mountain lake,
set in blond hills,
ringed with cypress-dark pines,
the site of a former Indian graveyard,
(I heard somebody say
as I left the water.)
Meanwhile, I floated, relaxed,
watched the sky
as dark clouds gathered,
lightning flashed,
thunder cracked close by.

Horrified, (a graveyard!)
I stood on the shore,
arms outstretched
in the silver downpour,
trying to wash away
with pure Sierra rain
my intimacy with corpses.

The time before is gone,
roaming in the restless lake
with the Indians whose
peace has been disturbed.
Their ghosts float in my head.

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