for Kevin Gick

as young people we are
taught to hold our tears

the feeling that could not

come to pass in the thundering

fallstreak, in piercing through virgae

we risk the jet plane flaming out

shafts of rain going sublime,

before ever touching ground

if this is dormancy, the self

unrequited, who would we be

if we became cloudburst?
consider the potted plant in the crook

whose roots could grow no deeper

its refusal to bloom & choosing

instead to shrivel,
 this is the instruction:

to pour down now and resound