This tropical rain thunders down like the gods
are shouting at us and springs back up
from the fields, misty around the edges
like lightning rods transported back to heaven
or the strings of a harp
Nothing else in the landscape moves.
I am transfixed, I feel the pole of my spine
threaded with rills of water
cascading up and down.
And then the rains stop
as if a curtain has hurtled upward.
The light seems to freeze, deepens,
illuminates a new world. The clouds lift,
and the volcanic mountain rears up
Within this field of silence, the unruffled waters,
begins a threading sound,
the frogs’ chorus is timid,
then bolder, a throaty unwinding.
Everything human is hushed
for this brilliant singing.
Mt. Rinjani accepts the night’s purple fields,
the serenade of darkness, the fragrant dance
of plumeria, of jasmine,
accepts the offerings of celebration,
the small wings of my hands lifting
Copyright © 2002 Jill McGrath. All Rights Reserved.