A Poem: Pouring

It is pouring so,
that the earth collects our tears as a midwife.

There is no rain pouring into puddles
that will not find its stream,

divert to where it is needed to nourish
and restore.

There is every season turning,
and some come in floods and hurricanes,

ever torrential
that we cannot keep up.

Our shelters even
appearing to tumble in the whirl-wind.

But there is the cave,
quiet,

secure as a mother after labour,
in gentle awe of the gifts borne from struggle.

And there is a still voice,
waiting, patient

expectant for the turbulence to be over,
unmoved by seasons running out their course.

Yes, it is pouring so,
that some of us fear we cannot swim.

Cannot traverse an ever-widening channel
broadening at the same extent we stroke.

But somewhere in the confusion
is a life-line,

a carriage to a sea
in which sorrow is absorbed.

And somewhere in the cave
there is hushed anticipation

that after the whirlwind
will come a still and audible voice.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
April 2021


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