Inside, rap on the speakers and two candles on my table.
Outside, the rush of wind transforms
into something else
and I stay still, listening.
Water descends
from the skies. Sound is made
when it hits surfaces: hard taps on the road
clangs and claps on tin roofs
muffled splashes from the trees.
Again and again I write the rain
this season. But I have hardly written
anything lately, just the wordless
pull of my breath, and then the
wordless exhale. I am, I am,
even when I don’t prove it.
I am, and that is enough
for love, for joy, most of
all for aliveness.
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