The rain first came in droplets.
No. First, it came in charging dark clouds,
lined up shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers.
Heavy with their hydrologic cycle,
much lower than the bright, light clouds they moved under.
Then, they began to rain.
and I hunched down beneath a brush of adolescent oaks.
Leg bent and nose to the ground, as if obeisant to the advancing storm,
Only to afford some dry spots on my stomach and chest.
But then came the torrents,
and I was drenched.
The hot day suddenly washed of all its worries
save my want for warmth.
And my broken heart,
at least for the moment,
lost its nerves.
And I could not feel anything
but the cold wind
and the hard, heavy rain,
beating and streaming down
all the curves of my thin skin,
chilling my bones.
In the woods
in the rain,
I feel alone
though, I am here in the presence of other free souls.
I can’t remember the last time my lips parted to speak.
I cannot recall my voice.
Nothing is lost.
The weather has soaked me stolid.
Not every experience requires speech.
I only think my thousand things
as I wait for the rain to pass
and ignore my knees
as they sink deeper in the sodden leaves.