Ode to Rainfall

The morning begins
The mowith sunlight filtering through
The morning bthe slits of the blinds

& another bad dream
The moof the forest turning to flame.
The morning bRaindrops drum against the roof,

christening the shingles
The mowhile I lie alone in bed,
The morning bwaiting for words to mean something

again. Because what can writing do?
The moBecause it doesn’t stop someone
The morning bfrom setting fire to a couple’s

home, from burning both men alive.
The moBecause, like us all,
The morning bit so easily burns. Like the skin

I tongued at the throat’s hollow—
The mothat morning salt my favorite flavor.
The morning b& nothing spells spring like my hands

turning to birds as the sun
The mosinks behind a cumulus, hands
The morning bflitting around flowering blooms

of hair. These blazing hands the way
The moMay begins as rain spatters the grass
The morning boutside. & what does it matter

I could drown? So
The mowhat if the sea scares
The morning bme. I’ve always been a swimmer.

& anyway, don’t you think
The mothere’s something about the way the rain soaks
The morning bus? We can’t help

but angle our eyes toward that stone sky.
The moWe can’t help but look heavenward, wet
The morning b& wanting more.