M. T. C. Cronin


sun & rain

‘What is there here but weather, what spirit
Have I except it comes from the sun?'

I have grown my wisdom
on summer days

and watered it with both rain
and melting snow

I have helped it
up ladders

and sat with it
still upon a tired step

I have tasted it like a bite
of fruit and unlike fruit

savoured that same bite
over and over

I have moved it
within my arms

and of nights cried for it
to leave me sleeping

and then dreamed it
to take a different form

something now unknown
and not like any shape

I have whispered or word
I ran my hands about

I was shocked but don't know why
I should have been

when I looked in a mirror
painted over

and I let my wisdom die
with the relaxing cells

that slow upon my body
and quickly fall aside

I use it to discard myself well
in the world

and when the world
is not mine

I will have no need
of the glorious shelter it will erect

in the place where that which
has sheltered me now stands

in the end I will sit down
without it

and know nothing
of the weather

sun & rain 2

Are sun and rain narratives
that focus on collective experience
or does this warmth
on the bridge of my nose,
this droplet hanging
from the hair of my brow,
weave itself from a story
that needs no universe?

I honestly don't want
to muck around with the weather.
It seems to have
such a nice indifference.
Like the storm that just came in
and destroyed all our hopes
after such a beautiful Summer.
Remember our sincerity.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 26, 2018

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