This poem was inspired by the freak rainstorm we just had (and, as of publishing, continue to have) in my part of the country, and by a comment regarding the weather made by a good friend. If you’re not familiar with southern California or its climate, we’re in a very serious drought right now. Rain is something we seriously need. This is my way of paying tribute to it.

 

Parched summer air
gives way to the pitter-patter
pitter-patter drop
drop
drops
so missed
these days,
like veterans of foreign wars
returning home
after so long away.

At last.

Smell the life
brought by crystal
spheres crashing to earth
from the darkened heavens; see
what sacrifice
is made, freely,
for all
by those brave warriors
we’ve prayed for
day after day,
arid night after arid night,
without answer.

Whom did we appease
that they might now come
home to our wasted, alien land;
our barren landscape,
drawn from Wells’s
own endless font
of imagined war?

Clear
all so clear;
not the blue we expect,
anticipate, had come to know
as true
through countless stories
portending endless torrents
and misery
and the gray skies,
grayest if seen through doubtful
eyes wondering if it all
could be just so,
never mentioning the black
that gives way to a kaleidoscope
of color in every direction
in every eye
that beholds what miracle
falls from above.

Taste that sweetness,
which lets course
at all the coursing vein;
which washes away
a thousand terrors,
smoothing the roughest moments
into little nothings
too round and perfect
to cause further harm;
which flows
from this epoch to that
inhabiting every being
of every design
at some point, making sure
they’re all appreciated
in time.

Perfect memory

in little puddles
collecting on my skin,

collecting me.

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