It's Still Life

Liturgy for a Southern Virginia Rain

I. The Invocation of Rain
it falls through the sieve of live oak,
birch, and maple—
not a baptism so much as
a mending.
Each drop stitches the air
to the earth
with threads of warm silver.

II. And Then the Chase
a cursive argument between
two lizards, they dart across
the fence’s warped spine—

they know what we forget:
gravity is a suggestion,
and the wood leans
into its own decay.

III. The Shallow Puddles
are mirrors that refuse to vanish.
They swallow sky, spit it back as silt.
The next storm is already singing
in their bellies—
a lullaby of almost and again.

IV. The Sky’s Lid
is steel grey, yes, but also—
the inside of a mussel shell,
or a knife left in the damp,
or the pause between thunder.
It presses down like a palm
on a fevered forehead.

V. The Rising
heat climbs the trees’ ribs
Cicadas protest in minor keys—
violins screwed too tight,
playing the only song they know:
“We are here.
We are here.”

VI. I am Standing
rooted in wet loam—
not praying, but listening
to the forest’s crooked liturgy.

The fence’s groan.
The lizards’ tail-whip song.
The puddles’ stubborn psalm.
You are the congregation.
You are the altar.
I am the heresy.

VII. The Blessing
of the rain softening what it will.
Of the heat curling a map at its edges.
Of cicadas chanting you home.

A forest is not a place.
It is a tongue.

Lick it.
Learn it.
And walk away
with your shoes full of its
holy water.

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Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.