Gradually, It Happens

gradually we like how dead things rise from their ashes
managing to take a shape like the neck of the heron
the white long neck of the heron
amidst the green rice fields just below a crumple of blue clouds
and then the sun slowly rises from the hills that look like
breasts of a woman just awaking from a very deep sleep
beside her lover who is too drunk from the many jugs
of happy moments which he drank....

last night, it was raining so hard
but they never noticed.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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