Ninety-Seven

for rhyming, a lost habit


midmorning rain fell faintly in drops
from clouds more gray than menacing;
our disjointed heads, in one mass, instinctively
bent down at the chin, pulled by one string-

what drives our gaze away from above
is a small golden weight nestled in our heads;
infinite skyward sight, unyielding blue, would never do,
and we humble ourselves by staring at our footsteps instead-

i often wonder how many times we look,
without being bothered, able, to know what we see;
heavy, blackened raindrops and intricate pebble sidewalks
escape the sight of inner eyes within you and me