Nimbus, I.
Oh, how I have shied from my thoughts
thus far, taunted.
Reminded by my eyes
each time they fall
upon a cloud;
How fast they flit and sweep,
dragging deeply,
yet I hold no esteem in grasping them.
John Francis Tracey
Pluvia, I.
The dried rhododendron sits still in the sill,
my face pale in comparison.
Within this humid hour, after a rather hastened
shower
of rain, leaving the notes –
staccato, spiccato
upon my window. Notes,
ones that reminded me of her,
somehow.
Coming with, a reminder of my own
temperance; I have not,
whether voluntary, truly expressed my feelings through
paper nor pining
in quite some time.
Within this humid hour, my emotions
sour.
All in the hope
of allowing this rain to seep
into the soil,
ripening the raw and rotting the rote;
What might grow?
John Francis Tracey
Sal, I.
It is of a just character,
to not burden oneself, nor others
with pungent anger.
Of such a thing,
one must not allow it
to be seeded;
a rampant rake.
Do not busy oneself –
treat the soil
as the figs foretold the Romans.
Now to concern ourselves
for a moment, with
dread,
despair,
solemnity;
I have not yet found such a potent mineral.
John Francis Tracey
