Sunday, March 15, 2009

The Rain

The rain 
is so eager to fall on our heads, 
prompt our trembling, 
tumbling out of beds. 
It ceaselessly pours, 
so trenchant and so cold, 
we feel the mooring 
of intractable, shouting winds 
that rush into doors 
and out of cantankerous windows.  

The rain 
is so willing to drench us, 
to wet our clothes, 
to wash, to cleanse us, 
it feels startlingly like  
a deluge of ichor 
bettering wounds. 
It is the washing  
of soiled bodies, 
thrashing and writhing in a momentary pleasure.  

The rain 
makes change so seamless. 
It takes old, vestigial hurt 
and flattens it gently.  
A soothing balm comes over it 
and precipitates 
layers of healing, 
making clean the prickliness of the old. 
It opens up fresh pores 
that breathe resuscitated.  

The rain 
pattering on him makes him look wet 
and calm and bellowing 
with hopefulness. 
It makes him incandescent  
with a kind of secret hope 
of incorrigible joy. 
It makes him feel 
like a refuge 
in which I can finally seal  
my peace.


Goldhawk said...

The structure, I like. :)

Furree Katt said...

I could never use the kind of vocabulary you do. :O it's really admirable. I use fairly easy words for everything i want to convey through whatever i write, and stuff like this blows me away (and makes me feel dumb).

if you don't mind me having a teenage-girl moment here, I HEART THIS!