It’s a cleansing
a falling of warm comfort
or cold for thirst, running from
streams to oceans
cast down from openings
the drops add to earth’s bounty
the catch basin
never filling or emptying
held steadfast by shorelines
the great walls
retaining
the formidable wrath
of angry giants
searching, hoping for
an escape, a way out
to devour and flood
what isn’t theirs.
Roger Singer 