by Bobby Steve Baker

awakened in the cloud dark dawn
by the pattering of rain so strange

in this wooden summer house where the blinds and shades
are not drawn and walls not filled with fiberglass to make a bell-jar stand alone

dressing in dark humidity the air tweaked with the sappy smell of pine
I am drenched in a wilderness of time of recollections

of rain on the roof of childhood
when I watched the sky in wonder as it rumbled the world a gravel throated threat

some absence of that awe has left in its wake
the weight of a peculiar longing 

a threnody both sweet and tinged with sadness
and I wonder is this why I have built this new life this hard work of simplicity

to regain a childhood innocence / I hope not / it can’t be done
although glimpses shimmer through unexpectedly like this one

just a short trill of what is real before my hot air balloon of thinking
drifts off course as some burdened version of me gets caught up

in ruminating on existence and why we should
and if we really do and how would we really know

then I realize this sort of thing has all been worried over and set down before
so I walk across the tongue and groove of my kitchen floor

stir the surface oil into my peanut butter
shape it on a large tear of whole wheat bread baked yesterday

and poured a glass of milk bought fresh from my neighbor
who keeps a cow and goat

the dog moves off his mat sighs and lays his head on my bare feet
glad I suppose to be warm and dry and not given to

pondering existential absolutes
as near as I can tell

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