J. Donald Coonrod

Rain

Each drop a letter
disciplined by winds
and sky,
with a message
at the end
of a long hot
summer’s day.

Pellets on the roof, and
only I can hear them say,
terrible, urgent thunder
for your thighs, for the lover
in you, the naked form of you,
washed in forgiveness;
 made whole again
by what I am.


© 2007 J. Donald Coonrod

Still Songs

I heard you crying
last night, I heard
you weep, sounds
muffled on your lips
your life and soul,

an alphabet
of love gone,
its incense
a sacrament still burning
in my heart, and its taste
sweet ripe melon
on my lips,

that infinity of you
lying so quietly now
in sack cloth
alone on a plain,

but oh, how I thank God
the Lord, maker,
you’re still here!
Still here! 


© 2007 J. Donald Coonrod

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