Rain

Gray rain washes the colour from the sky.
And the scourge of water sinks us,
luxury vessels that we are,
into the deep of dark rooms so much
like tombs.

And there we lay, waiting for sun.
As if the womb that bore us was ever dry,
and we wipe at our tears too
as if they were unholy things,
as if water had not run from the very side of Christ—

It is evening and the land has become sea. All
coursing rivulets and glittering pools reflecting the moon;
A moving lake eddying down quicksilver paths
to home.

Next morning, you wake and step out for work
and the air is clear as light.

But you do not thank the rain.