In some part of The Land
there’s been more rain
than they can handle

but not here, where we long
for rain and pray for The Land
to come back into Balance. 

What if this is Balance?
Some say it is and the Land
is behaving as it should.

We are the Fulcrum 
upon which the Balance
has come to rest.

Some say, it is what it is. Some say
those words are themselves
the blunt tip upon which

the Fulcrum has come to rest
and the reason the Balance
wobbles like a weak priest

in a confessional, shaking
as he listens to sins in a voice
he knows so well.Too well.

All I know is that the rain
is elsewhere, not here. We
do what we can to maintain

Balance. We shiver or we burn
and tell each other to take hold
and hang on. It is what it is:

the Balance is not in our favor
and unlikely to come to us now. 
That’s the nature of Balance: 

it settles, eventually, come rain
or come shine. There’s a reason
some say it that way: it is 

what it is,
come rain or come shine,
easy come, easy go.

It’s been years now since
we’ve seen rain. Listen to 
The Land. Bring us now the Flood. 

Appeal
to our
better natures.

Soften public
opinion toward
your parents. 

Annoy and afflict others
with memories of how you lived
and died.

Suggest a better world 
for those who remain,
eventually. At least

remain 
a lesson 
on the way there.

There’s rotting
to be done. There are
cheap shots to be taken

at your expense.
Absorb and deflect them
and in fact cease caring

for what strikes you,
as you were unable to do
in your last live minutes.

Lie there until
someone grows a conscience
and replants it elsewhere.

Feed it 
on your name
and last words.

Water it 
with unruly streams
of your blood and tears. 

Fade from it, or do not.
Not for everyone,
not for long years.