i do not need a weatherman
to know which way the plum rain blows
it is like blue lotus rising fragrantly from the Nile
slender green fingers of rice paddies drinking
awaiting a rescue by the one who loves me
from my sheltered bench
of porous wooden slats
within sight of the swift and narrow Han
fed by mountain streams looking
like white water rapids of mini-Colorado
with egrets on her shores
waiting for worms to arise
like migratory ducks under an overpass
cleaning dirty wet feathers
after blue plum rain clouds burst upon us
as vainly i cover a book of Seven Flowers
hunched over a vulnerable laptop
with no place to go
or place i would rather be
breathing these tropical smells
of lush green Taichung deeply
and no other tongue would i rather speak
than the language of passing storms
no time would i rather have
than my own good time
staying dry in my lover's eye
near the mighty River Han
6-7-16
Copyright © 2016 by David Barry Temple. All rights reserved.
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