RAIN 04-06-09

Is it that in rain we find
that the cleanest part of ourselves
has been rusting away all this time
in its Nautilus chamber,
and we never knew until the water swept away
enough grayish sludge to trace the edges?

What is it that dies in us
when we see the truth of the loss of our innocense
swept clean by summer rain?
It becomes apparent that the seasons are changing,
the flowers are kissing the drops
with fat, hungry lips,
but somehow that place inside of us
that once stretched and throbbed
with every snae-toungued fork of lightning
has now begun ot fail?

Oh, how we fight in the rain
for the humanity we sold so cheap.
Oh, how we ache with its resonance
when before we felt no indication of is absence.
When the sies are gray and the sound explodes
of small things making a difference
only in mass integration,
there is suddenly the knowledge,
frigid, immutable,
that somehow we never noticed
that exact, precarious moment
when we no longer cared.

What is it about rain
that makes us feel so small,
that makes us remember happiness
the way a veteran recalls a phantom limb,
that makes us so aware of how old we have become
without noticing the wrinkles?
What is it about the storm
rthat reminds us of people we could have been,
lovers we could have loved,
smiles we could have cradled,
and makes us with its frozen embrace
not clean- no- but finally aware
of our nakedness?

Is it that in the rain we find
the cleanest
part
of
ourselves
and we
never
k
n
e
w...
?