A Good Scrubbing

some days—

the flecks and chunks

of insufficiencies,

insults and incredibilities,

splatter on: salt and slush

to cloud the mind’s shine

coat the heart’s lustre

and create a predominance of grime.

But in moves the rain, forgiving

the hopeful torrent

the graceful wash

that buff me up real bright

and set me on another day

—some nights
one just needs a good scrubbing

Pages open, open, unfinished

Coldly bright and screaming

Branches blanketed, donning robes

Cold and clean and beaming

Let the snow drift down

Upon the trees

And cover, too, these pages,

Dead digital leaves,

Man’s cruel tools—

Memories of magic natural

Christen, enrobe, grace
The space ‘tween mind and soul