calliope

the machinery
that holds up the clouds
a calliope of gently held ideas
suspended in vocal harmony

aloft, soft and fat
1,000 feet above us

rain signals to us
that the machinery
will need reinventing

neither spent nor rusty
nor needing new batteries
it simply will need regrouping

tomorrow morning
when the storm is past
the sun will lift moisture
up to its petticoats
wanting only to see its children,
fed and clothed,
left in peace to inch further
toward some kind
of communal understanding