Rain on Tin
I sit with Katmandu all shook up - 7.9
with paisley troposphere caressing blue planet.
I sit with red scarves on quiet women,
with broken bodies confused about roads to healing.
I sit with secret holders, how
each one wonders, am I safe, am I stuck?
I sit with ample water to take long hot showers
in a safe place, my own safe place.
I know of children who carry water, uphill
for evening meals, dodging bullets, ducking shrapnel.
I sit with questions that poke the soles of my feet,
when I walk too fast they pop.
I sit with sorrow, and like woodpecker,
sometimes I just bang away at things.
I sit with struggle and sing a weedy song,
I want my voice to be rain on tin.
I sit like puddle dreaming ocean,
like ocean dreaming sky.