i live in a prism of sunshine,
and that is all the joy a man could fathom.
except—i often wish for rain. the
hazy kind—not those grizzly grandstanders
that shake the sky. no; like a cast of quiet
dew, on a pilgrimage from heaven to earth.
on a slow and wind-swept mission that ever asks:
“have you accepted nature as your lord and savior?”
these damp inquisitions put me at my
best. upright, drawn to my smattered journals
so that i can ask silly things like: where is
the rain going today? can i come?
is it falling for me?