Wondering, wondering why She is rapt,
like duty in its flight from lawful pain,
a flag before the storm, ideals aloft,
tidy morality, a banner held
like Joan's defiance of the English might.
Thundering, thundering before the rain,
relief that never comes from mere shadows
cast upon the grieving Earth, dried out from
Heaven's just neglect of its mongrel brood,
howling for its lost lupine nourishment.
Blundering, blundering below, shrouded
In miasmas of half created dreams,
poetic fight impossible without
that tense space between Earth, cloud, rain and drought,
hiatus interruptus in between.
Sundering, sundering the connection
Of Earth and Sky, star clad Nut falls below
To patient, waiting Ithyphallic Geb,
then clouds are rent asunder by the light
trapped within the shroud of self becoming.