The early autumn rains weep,
Drop with abandon from an unimagined height.
I wonder what they plunge to seek,
And if I can find there a way or a why.
What is it like to condense in the altitude's fog
And become weighty with true self
So that you slip from floating in the dark bog
And soar in the wind at gravity's honest bidding
Toward some final loss of self
That will be a sea -- or a puddle -- of new beginning.
