You are a novel
gathering dust on my shelf
but not because I don’t want to read
but because I’m afraid
to turn the page,
afraid of how you’ll end

the weight of seven
hummingbirds -- 21 grams --
is what leaves the body
after death

on that hummingbird breath
the soul leaves
a wispering whisper
of seven tiny, winged cavatinas

being sung back
and singing themselves
forward
into the chorus

to enter again
a melody -- in
the Eye Of God

shimmering
iridescent
wings beating
the rhythm of Love



c. 2018 Roberta Compton Rainwater

Poetry
to me
is taking
my pain
and making
it sing.

sheds its bark an

armor piece at a time
from high on its trunk

where its heart would be
is that what creches first

rather than the soul?
(a volute of thought

from heart to head, this) --
like the healing of its bone

by the purring of the cat
or the birthing of a person

in the eye of the whale
or the movement of the heart

into the head
a balm of balsam

baal shemen
chief anointing in the

shedding of the tree
a chrism, the

extreme unction of Love


c. 2018 Roberta Compton Rainwater

I raise my glass
to you, dear woman
across the horizon
out where the water rises;
here's to all the years
I've spent waiting,
to all the miles I made
myself across, a life
spent wandering in haste,
wondering just how
your salt would taste.