Umbrellas bloom like mushroom tops.
Mud slides like sleighs down a slope.
Puddles gather soiled water.
A car rolls past the wipers working
Full speed, to counter the deluge,
Slowed down by the incessant rain.
A man looks out of a window pane,
Through the lumen of time,
A continuum, notorious for both
Retrospection and hindsight,
The heart marching to a barcarole.
Rainfall is when we realize, that we all
Have moments defined by a stubborn strain,
So different to others, a niche of its own.
And through the subjective episodes,
We escape our sorrows, letting them
Dilute to the rainwater, moving
Them through landslips and landslides, when
That holograms of our collective memory
Drift us through a lonely path,
Where we are, the need of the moment,
An inkling that we were as good before,
As the after, that sketch, the third
Eye draws on a screen, showing a white horse,
And a damsel in distress, is really
A pale-skinned woman, and a car
With a string of tins tied to the back. You’re a moment
Going forward, and a moment in the future, to be,
Drifting back to that same moment,
The crosscurrents of time, our ways
Of knowing, we drift to our own torrents,
Like the many fates of rainwater
Seeping, leeching, percolating, irrigating.
Time, drains through not knowing,
What moments in the future, once lapsed,
Will echo back from the past. Then, we become
Like fruit bats operating our sonar,
Down a time corridor. Nostalgia is just
Our pathology to echo locate