Time As The Rain Of Time Poem by James McLain

Beneeth the great moss-covered douglas it's fir
talking, I inquire about the wet rain.
The firewood does it to the air, air and of water
when time is consumed
like the dawn of a long winter night.
When the light footsteps stop here
there is where I wait underneeth with you
and we wait to hear my long story,
it is not confused it is often to careful, plentiful song it makes
comes the rain the drizzle thin, is, you have still gone away
while the day sits in wait for the night, the night has no real order
still last to arrive are the stars, in bright order too pause
as the change like the eye streaks formation
my lashes lay wet in the corner of some fog that time has forgotten,
the winding of this pause a formation of time, for one such
as you to inquire about here in the rain.
Can you still hear my story, hearing it said without
and without, beneeth the fir, I am saying do you hear like the eye inside, it feels in the rain where you slept,
you become aware
do you open as is due to all five of your feelings, it is the rain each syllable when falling, the light footsteps, each whisper,
it's weight it is not, the fresh word of air or the water.
Your story, the asphalt which once hot, gets wet it has shone,
as it rises, goes away from the steam, the night opens up you too me,
and I it see, you come off in the steam and it is your body,
the footsteps of the water the trails across that run both ways
where you of the night and your soft fuzzy flat surface,
electric you and the neon
bright light of your wet hair, it makes each short hair come across,
as it enters into my full account,
as it crosses my eyes, for one like you to inquire about in the rain.
Can you hear now my story grows as the leaves turn to open.
Night has as for that it has fallen it is the hot humid night
when you slept without in your bed it is the surge of the wave of your breath, my finger in the water can it dampen your any amount.
One finger from the flame burns out each eye,
your finger cools the air as it opens each eyelid of time,
rearranging the order of each new spring my range of vision
and revival it is.
For one to inquire about the rain, love hear my story,
each new year, the time when it returns, it above us passes.
And you as youth when you did, inquire about the footstep of the following monsoon? Here, then there.
The footstep of another time and the time
when there is it now when you inquire about those tears does it hear. Heavy weight is not the inventor of the place, everywhere,
inquires about the rain which now moves to the plateau
as for the night of it's many nights deep in the orchard,
green is the garden of which the electric light drew us close between the leaves,
and does not have the composure keeps us wandering about
in the shadows, your shadow that time some how forgot.