The rains pass by, and yet I do not write

The rains pass by, and yet I do not write
despite a perceived duty. The trees sing
and waver in the gusts that rumble over
the gulfs and bays. The rains pass by, and yet

our lips can only stammer. The clouds move
in waves like language, undulate and change
when pressurized. We chant the high things of
God, there is no god; I wonder who isn't

His messenger. The rains pass by, and yet
we do not move. The Sundials that the trees
resemble tell the time, we tell the story

of words through images. The rains pass by,
and yet I do not sing. The stammering storm
is chanting the high things despite us.