Steam From the Asphalt

When I was a child,
the rain felt different.

I would stand in the
summer storms, and
let them soak in deep.

Denim shorts, almost
white hair – toe-headed,
I remember how it felt
when the steam rose from the
asphalt to warm my ankles.

My young mind didn’t
understand the adventure ahead,
but I stood and stared
down the road, and saw
stories in the curls of steam.

The elders must have thought
me diminished, but the summer
storm never ended, instead,
it rolled into my soul,
where the steam rose from
my fiery heart, a release,
but it beat ever-harder.

Now I know the secret
of those summer storms…

they are life-bringers,

the soul-cleansers,

the washers-away of the filth that hides the seed.

It took forty years, but it
seeped into the hidden places
where my soul’s need unfurled
and reached for the Sun.

I am alive…

the past is undone.


©️ CGT, 2018.

9 Comments on “Steam From the Asphalt

  1. Oh, Obol. Now that is the most beautiful, most wonderful piece I’ve read of yours. (And that will be all I read tonight, so I can take the imagery to dreamland…) Thank you. What a gift you give us by using your own.

    Like

  2. (Morning after…) This particular poem unlocked, unleashed so much in me, personally and as a poet. I’m not even sure why, but that is one of the greatest things about poetry. I think finding our way (rather than making it, as you once said) is not only key but also involves finding the right keys to our unique locks. Thank you again for leaving this key upon my trail.

    Like

    • You’re welcome and thank you. If one knows their boat won’t sink, why not let the current take you to sea?

      Like

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