And It Rained: A Poem

Slake my thirst,
Dirty green of desert oaks,
Grey like ash,
You brittle clouds,
Waiting to break.

Tear in the sky,
You will sing
Against my psalms.

I open
My hands
To you.

 

 

—

Here in Paso Robles, it doesn’t rain a lot. But I was born and raised in a different part of the country, where rain is as integral a part of the daily routine as breakfast. I love it. And so when I felt the first drop of water against my outstretched hands on Saturday night, wandering drunkenly about the town with friends in tow, I almost couldn’t contain myself. The poem I wrote in my head that night faded as quickly as the alcohol did from my blood, but I got these few short verses out of it. This isn’t the poem I meant to write, but it’ll do, at least until the next time.