(a love poem to precipitation)
For two days the sky has slowly clouded,
scrunched its face like a toddler winding up
for a tantrum, finally spitting petulant drops
at us, and the miracle of puddles and wipers
beating a steady cadence on the windshield
and the gratitude we had promised
to the heavens if only…
has given way to irritation.
We are a parched people who have
forgotten what it is to be wet.
We slip, we swear, we shake ourselves
and our umbrellas like dogs when we come
inside. We are surprised by the viscosity
of soil that yesterday gasped with dust
under foot, now turned scary slick.
We have forgotten how to drive
under anything but bright blue skies,
and already, we long for sun.
Oh, disciples of drought,
denizens of the dry:
Step outside without coats or umbrellas.
Feel yourselves pelted, even pummeled
by the seemingly endless rain,
summon to your lips a wet prayer
shaped to your most urgent need,
and let it radiate through ever form
of thanks you can muster—
because this is a gift like so many others,
coming at just the right time,
seeping into your skin,
moistening your hard shell,
washing away the stains and sorrows
all the way down to your bones.