Rain

Rain. Yesterday, this morning, mixing with the sprinklers; a flood and a trickle. The overcast settles me, cool center to myself. I never tire of it. Perhaps akin to the blankets of my youth, under which the dim torches shone, wrinkled cloth landmarks like soft mountainous terrains of my own design, my own country, dark and uncertain, like my mind.

I was but the single inhabitant of a created world that took me longer than seven days to complete, and I never rested. Within that place – a god. Without it – an angel fallen.

When I witness the clouds scudding fast and low, the firmament lowered to my outstretched hand, I touch the moisture of the mist to my lips, parted in anticipation, the sweet clear teardrops of the god whose world I traipse. Like you, I ask many questions that cannot be answered, which weeping will not erase.

But I am easier at my center when it rains, when the weather brings the maker of the world closer to my eyes, the rhythm of the rain, life’s pulse within the patter. I glimpse you there through wet sheets, your body rising to my sight, rising together, wonder in the small prominences, love upon the fluid plains. All is good, the world whispers to me, when it is dark and cool about me, and we are warm and safe within our own.