Rain

 

I could see the little droplets
making their way into the world.
Slither epiphanies
and the earthy smell.
Oh, how delicate!
The parades of freshly washed peaches across the street;
the chirrups of beetles,
the fresh breeze swaying onto the black road,
and how lovely, how wise
the leaves look when they unfold.

The muddy stains
on the silky roads,
the beauty that arises with the misty haze
of the evening.
So raw,
pilfering the clouds of their void
is the narrative of a window that sweeps off
the domain of whimsical,
melancholic and a deprived soul all at once.

Is this what a beginning feels like? Is the life
so majestically withdrawn from
silent vows of the nature
just a beauty to cherish?
Or a memory of love to perish. The love story
of a green stem and the purple flower,
the rain embracing the utterance
of the bodies so connected, so intertwined.
A suspect can you not see;
a ruse of darkness
that enchants with its own little lies.
Oh, rain!
How clever you are to wash away the dust? To give life
to colors so high above the sky;
to make the world believe you are good,
to come off,
unholily, and spread words of detachment
in the name of liberation.

Oh, cunning rain!
How persuasive can you be?
I idolize you;
I idealize you, the pinpricks on walls with cracks,
the crack on heels of women and men alike,
the trial of caressing everyone with
the contagious sense of a love wanted. The art
you carry, the part you play,
the art you are in this part of the play,
can I be like you?
Can I?
Can I be unapologetically beautiful
and hide my darkness?

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