the rain rarely seems to stop
these days, and when it does,
it lays in wait on the horizon.
just overhead, not seen or heard
but always felt—of this i'm sure,
even if i'm sure of little else.
were that my words were
ever so direct as is the storm,
i'd know their worth was more
than any tongue could bare.
as an umbrella bends, torn
beneath the wind, gossamer
and bruised, like petals thin;
a flower's gown, skirts worn,
tattered drapes beaten
by the breeze. such delicate
robes are these that shroud my
shoulders, dusted by dew,
drops that never leave. i know,
now, more than i have ever
known before, and what is more:
i know how little i still know. i owe
nothing, i owe everything, i am owed;
above all, i am owned, caught
by the call of the weather,
a torrential forever. forget not
the past nor the present, for what
informs the future if not those?
beneath the shower i compose a
certain truth: though the rain
always returns, so does the sun,
and while both have earned their
place, neither have won—this
is no race, no competition,
but a dance. so wait your turn;
for as the cycle always spins
it will always come around
in its own time, no matter how
you yearn, you cannot rush; this is
a play of patience, not of luck.
