Holy Rain

The rain is soft outside my
window this late night, this early morning,
this liminal time. And sleep? It
sits at the edge of the room. It
hovers over my head. It
is phantasmal, appearing dimly, still
beyond reach, mirroring my failed grasp of
You – You, slipping through my fingers as if my
digits were made of space, as they are.
You will not be held, even while
You hold me, mold me, move me in
Your gaze: piercing, precise, and so
painfully close but never close
enough. I melt into desire and become
one with the rain outside my window:
falling on You,
through You,
with You.

How Pink…

How pink these May
worms were, today, all squirming
in two – one on top of
blacktop’s rained mirror and
the other below. I
looked down at these
exposed souls, wondering
how long till lunch – but
the birds were not to be
found. Maybe a
parking lot is too
pedestrian for the fowl
in my hood. Maybe this is a
May-get-out-of-jail-free Day
for worms. Maybe I stayed
Mr. Robin et al., following me at
a distance, ready to seize the day,
but soon to discover that
two worms on the lot are only
one in the beak.

A Prayer after the Rain

Your kiss, God, lingers
in the rain rich air and
your damp lips
stay the day’s chaos. I
look hard for a bow of
promise in the sky,
but no and yet
clouds glimmer hope
with gilded edges
and
in the odour after the rain
I sense Your scent.

You, God, are
after the rain – I feel
your weight in wind’s caress,
wet with joy.

You, God, are in plants panting Your Breath
You, God, in this butterfly speaking hope
You, God, in that harried immigrant smiling love
You, God, in swell of wave, in surge of faith.
You.