Futile is the cup

sweet broken bone
china where the chip
is where rain sips

splashs in the thicket
growing tall
and growling
scratching the house
the tempest storm
of spring

flash bright the thought

ziggaurat of brick
the finger of chimney
reaching to touch
the cloud

the window panes are
thin on the top floor
the attic is full of
drumming thin
rain humming on the
flashing tin

dripping on the wreck
drifting marooned
in tall winter grass

I shiver standing
brave returned to this
sleeping grave of
memory

the rain alive beats on
the spirit strong