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Wish it would rain, so I could say everything. Wish it would be that urgent. 

The tree outside shakes in a mad frenzy, and then slows -- and I'm begging it to go on. Spelling' from the very chest of veins, to make those tiresome clouds finally burst, ...to make the rushing sound as it all descends. Silent parables being said -- and then the tree begins again -- and then stops just as night comes. 

Damn. 

Now even if the storm comes -- the evening will swallow it, and I'll only hear the sounds it makes. What of the sounds? What of all this beautiful murmur, the talk forming in the tiny pauses between each potential droplet? - is it lost in the greater orchestra of a story? Vanishing in the mist that's rising from the grass --- against cold air & heated soil --- and with every change, the result is different of which temperature wins out. 

Guess I'm battling the same. Rising with it, and falling in such a pollen-haze--- and finding the yearning for summer grow. 

Wish it would rain, 'cause I wanna tell you everything there is. So sorry that the words, they're barely crawling -- like moss --- to my lips for speaking. I need to wear so many more explanations, before the simplest thing ever said can exist...need these things I make to wait awhile sometimes. 

Meet me in the thick of it all --- the Southern summer --- and by then I'll know just what to say. By then, we'll be old in our thoughts -- and new in our thick company. You'll tell me all the stories a second time, and I'll feel the sound of the low waves, and the pier we're sitting on.


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