Monsoon Days Poem by Alven L. Robinson

Fingers swollen in the monsoon days,
Can't find the keys beyond the haze.
No words just yet for song or sigh,
Just crows of black on laden sky.

Cicadas chant in waves of verse,
Stifling sounds of verbal curse.
Withered trees of branches broken
Rent the light of wisdom spoken.

Smiles linger in soft shade,
Sacral tidings on a barren glade.
Faith waxes in the idle clearing,
Anointing silence with the hearing.

Assurance gambles on false tears
Of reason lost in forest fears.
The hour has a fragrant call
But mercy has no place to fall.

The blackened stones along the way
Are seldom seen in light of day.
No one stands beneath the eve
To touch the rain of saint's reprieve.