Pink so pale it must have given up
swims halfheartedly under a gloomy nebula.
The adumbration keeps the sky from raining up,
and so it falls, washing the daft red.

Folding like a wet shower curtain,
it scurries down on mountains
shaped like a woman in a tub,
bathing in leaves.

It lusciously cur-plunks
into this woman's tub.
Only half full,
compared to the sky.

Upon the shore the waves climb sand;
a horizontal mountain never to be won.
Yet from overhead tiny, hydro-paratroopers
wage war on a shattered, golden golem.

Further up this slight incline rests lofty grass.
The Sky's tears land on this like tiny ninjas,
riding their blades like swords ride sheaths,
to land their feet and reach the beach.

Above, rain drops from canopies.
A jungle full of beasts
swinging ferociously
like crazy, raging monkey's.

07/28/2010

Author's Note: A new view on raindrops. The beginning of the poem is describing an island from a distance.

Posted on 11/29/2010
Copyright © 2024 Jody Pratt