The night rain
Loads the morning foliage,
Hauls each stem down
With a sheen.
The damp leaves
Lick the air,
Exfoliating pungencies
And sap soaked humidity,
Hunkering in rich breath
Of the wood scent,
Releasing stomatal volatiles
And chlorophyll astringencies,
Tempered by the nectars
Of bedraggled flowers,
Lolling before the sunshine
Straightens them.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
Miasma condenses
Heavy blue
In the brooding
Underbellies
As if the cauldron
Were full
At a point of boiling
And might only ease
In manifestation
Of tearful rain
And reservoir’s
Releasing cascade.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The air is moist
And humid heavy
But fresh
With new rain,
Still dampening down
Still weighing
Each leaf droopy,
Each bended stalk
Gravity bound.
Some flower heads
Are dew drunk
Lively, plush
And open eyed,
As perfect
As purity
In droplet spheres
Expressed
Upon the petals body.
But some are dashed
To autumnal fall:
The rose
Shaggy on its swollen hip,
Curling
And fading tears
Scattered in the falling.
It’s as if
The night could
Reach beyond
It’s dark boundary:
Wet finger tips
Invading the day
Or morning, at least:
Its species
Conveyed in fluid:
The slugs
The snails
Putting down
Their silver trails
For the sun’s
Open touch
And glitter
In awakening.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 