The rain sweeps over the river minutes before it gets to us.
Dripping lime-colored moss.
Tears of life upon summer’s decaying detritus.
This morning: gray-blue-silver, with a breeze.
The soft roar of a nearby creek,
brought to life by earlier sweeps.
Robins seeking sustenance in soaked grass.
Sparrows hopping to and fro, silent, watchful.
The river gurgles in greeting as I approach.
She’s high, close to flooding,
but nothing like this time a year ago.
The spaces inside me have been tortured of late.
In the emptiness of each, I have sought reassurance.
I want the rain to cleanse me,
refresh my creeks,
provide for the hopping-flitting-fleeing-cautious.
Faith is moments like these.
Often, for me, it comes as rage,
like these storms as they blow through,
tossing the detritus about and breaking limbs,
pushing my patient fields, soaking them with doubt.
The heater is on; it’s afternoon; and my migraine is subsiding.
There is rest in this place.
Featured: Checked as Mate, by yours truly