Spectral Morning

Rain fills buckets from heaven. Indeed, heaven invents rain, then offers buckets. Heaven brings the idea of word in between, when the bucket overflows. We need the flooded forest with its landscape claim settling to roots. Roots swim in this abundance and radiate towards news. News carries heaven. The buckets fill to overflow, and each step that we take sinks in. We have the rain in mighty collusion, bringing, after effect. And soon the sun, in a nameable century, will throttle the old ways. Soon, too, transport begins with a small insect, its chasing bird, its looping in the sky. Where love begins, rain collects. The buckets of heaven fill and fill, until filling no more. Limits lift us to newer sentences. Each period contains a rain of buckets filled with rain. When we tire, and the rain eases, the sun, surely, will know us. Even this morning posits grey as the new green. But green is only one of many, and we will soon learn to join in.