Res, Publica

I can feel Her softly rubbing
kind caresses on the leaves,
while She flows around the knots
of unruly, coalesced weaves.
As the night birds' hushed sounds
pave the way for a new dawn,
She's pelting all the gutters,
and lushing the wild lawns.
She comes to wash the cobblestones
and muddle the dry sand,
She gifts new life to greeneries,
She quenches many lands,
a myriad creatures scuttle
under Her watchful eyes
to look for food, drink, shelter,
so social knots can tie.

She's falling on the noble,
as She hits the poor of heart,
just as much on a hipster
as on any work of art,
She covers the teenager
and his faith in life that starts,
She wets the middle-aged ones,
while She jeers at all their doubts,
to Her our very eldest
smell o' freshly remade cots.
She sprays the madly fit,
and the plumper ones as well,
the drenched bum in the thrash can
is Her son as any man:
there is no bias in Her,
for everyone She quells.

But god I really wished for Her
to lend a helping hand
to me, my doubts, my pantomymes
that carolers retell.
Of course She doesn't listen,
it's obvious She cares not:
the night is rolling on
and I'm still without a plot.

She pays no heed to differences,
nor cares of who you are,
your heart's contempt is meaningless
to Her you are no star;
you see, She's mother nature:
it would be smart to play for par.

And Alas! here I am,
the dark has turned to light,
the lazy birds are waking
to Rain's most ancient rite.
Alone with many questions,
of answers I have few,
and all that is here left with me
is Her tapping on my roofs.