Age, do bear with me, thus,
tarry that my fancies stain,
and ebb with day and night;
‘ere long gone sorrow cools,
but with a tender sweetness,
do I, but in this vein, delight;
‘ere consuming of stone days,
burdened ill by wilding hands,
age, spawn yet more ignite;
that I may feel the burning
of a newly darkened sky,
and of its tear-stained light;
that with each falling rain,
does my soul speak to me,
searing its wisdom so bright;
and I listen to its sad song,
but one which might heal,
and give to my mind sight;
with a raw, tempered rain,
tears cling to wanton flesh,
as tho’ by its inherent right.
Petrichor 