Wooden pews
Keeping me from sinking
Too low
Into my own consciousness
Into my choices
To become unlazy
in the life outside
the stained glass
doors.
Always shut
To keep me from
Sinking
Too low
Too alive
Too low
into myself.
I have enough tears
to make a room humid
like the rain is
forcing the dry desert
to drink
even though it wants to be barren
cracked in all the right places
rough on all the edges
sharp.
And the puddles puddle
as they do so well
being themselves
as they do
falling into the grooves
so free.
Whether the desert desires
it has no choice but to surrender
itself to the rain.