Torrents of Rain

Torrents of Rain

(“O Lord, restore our well-being, just as the streams in the arid south are replenished.” Psalm 126:3)

Don’t let the fantasy of uneasy paragraphs
persuade you that the everything is glued,
everything is static,
everything is anti-motion. The stars are
moving away from us a trillion miles away.

Don’t let the certainty of ambiguity convince you
the rains are gone. Don’t let the clouds on the horizon
obscure the coming day. Lighter than the mountains,
denser that the sun,
invited by petition,
stretched like the ocean’s horizon,
hold the hope that yesterday’s promises bring.

The fog burned off quicker than I guessed,
the light, though slanted late summer,
reached my porch before the evening fell.
We examined every exposed corner where
the light bent to reveal life hidden behind the
outcroppings of doubt.

The wadis were waiting, the dried riverbed
asleep and dry. The pilgrims plod the
unkempt desert floor; the preachers are not
certain, though they have set a new date for
the end of the world. Do they every stop their
silly prophecies once the storms do not gather
like the have pontificated? Do they admit the harm
their proclamations have done?

There is a rainy season; there is a time when
water will fill the desert again. It does not come
from ego-saturation, it does not arrive because
someone painted sign with the exact date and time.
You can no more command the rain than you can
tie the wind with a half-hitch, tethering it to the mountains.

There is a season for ease; there is a gracious month
when the Spirit will fill the waiting again. She comes
when least expected; she fills the imagination; she washes
the religious dust away. You can no more command the
Spirit than you can turn the earth with your hands.

As a matter of fact, there is far more water to quench
your soul
than all the suns in the universe. Watch the desert
late evening silhouette. Let the peace that pursues the
thirsty make an oasis of your tear-dried tongues. No need
to ration anything. It is time to share the overflow
that comes from the joyous music of torrents of rain
we thought would never arrive.

Windingly I Will Arrive

Windingly I Will Arrive

I apologize for coming so late,
the traffic was schismatic, and, as has
always
been my custom,
I did what I was told right up until now.
I promise, though,
I will be there by the day after tomorrow;
I swear I will make up for the time I spent away.

The blame does not lie outside me,
the choices were all mine. And everyone who
knows me
can stipulate that I never meant harm to anyone.

But looking in the mirror, seeing the headlights on my tail,
the tears of my ambitions were wiped from the windshields,
and fell on the highway behind us all.

The thunder clashed with my intentions,
the storm wrecked every itinerary on the way.
My father used to say that shortcuts were only
the longer road to get somewhere fast. I never found
one.

But, windingly I will arrive, pennies in my pockets,
pebbles in my shoes, gravel in the tire treads, and,
slightly embarrassed and more amused that
I could have walked across the street 40 years ago
to see you the way
I see you
today.

What If We Had Never Met?

What If We Had Never Met?

What if we had never met? That’s not impossible,
is it? I used to think I could dig deep enough to arrive
for lunch in China. I’d still be digging today or
melted and scorned by the molten core of my home planet.

But, what if? Would I still be afraid to dance? Would
I like to meander more or less? Would I let strangers take
my snapshot
or be shyer than all the rest?

When if we had always supped? Sharing bread and
bottles of wine,
would we have lasted longer as friends or
wandered like wobbling planets? Would I cross
states
to find you? Or remain solid as ice, permanent as pavement
and never leave my assigned place?

Lately beloved names escape me. Fascination with new ones
unmakes me. What if we had not feared so much? What if
we let the river take us, peaceful and strong,
along the banks of the mountains to the
open sea
and straightway realized how friendships are far too
geographical.
For me, it is no laughing matter. I can ache for a face
I have not seen in nearly 20 years. I can long for a voice;
no, the tone, not the words. I can long for a voice that meant,
“Do you need some company?” at the first hello.

Today space separates me from my if-onlys; yesterday, death.
Time has made our shared secrets thinner. I have no illusions
about eternal bonds, not with everyone, I guess. And
I hate to say I’m

lonely.

I hate to say it at all.

What if I had stayed just one hour longer when
all you needed was another human to see you
better
than you saw yourself?

What if I have divorced myself?

Today one day whole
would be the beginning of me.