The rain is a harvest,
Of locusts,
Grovelling in the mud,
Igniting the dirt,
With rapid, incandescent movements.

Few of them
Fall on my wet feet
And consummate
The glowless meat,
With Desires.
Which shall remain unfulfilled.

I remember
The last time it had rained,
You were far and oblivious.
Occupied in the obvious.
While I drank the hues
Hoping you could watch
The omnipresence of the drops.
And kissed the ones which lingered,
Later.

The leaves bend silently,
Bowing before the permanence,
Of the present gravity.

Something washes the chains,
Hoping to break the banes,
Yet retires approvingly,
Understanding how unbridled freedom
Can be very
Ungainly.

Soon,
Every sentry returns,
Unperturbed.
The rain leaves us.
Undisturbed.