Soft night’s rain

In reply to Melanie Almeder’s “Verge”

We are no less
than the lesser things

built on the struggles of the many
who came before, footsteps following footsteps

like a mindless cacophony, a circle
beyond all understanding, history repeating

history, the masses and the individual, a resonance lost.
The touch of rain on the roof, a rumbling

deep in sleep, and night nestled close
like a calf to his mother, is protection from the unseen;

the sound of rain rolling back generations
to the primordial, a dance of water giving

life, gives all. Even now we see the gift: imagination
greets us, a touch breathed in, some wisp

of breeze uplifting, wide-winged hawk pulling skyward,
a sweep of updraft caught in the sunlight

before the rain. I reach out, to touch, to capture
some splash on my hand. You, too, have reached out;

under a summer mist, our fingers
touch, unintended but planned, some intervention,

history preceding history, pushing us to brushed flesh,
a touch and a pulse between us, unmet and tempted.

Here, we are, new stories built on the past,
a building inward, mindful of the place we came, mindful

of the other, soft glances tempered by the ever falling mist,
open-eyed joy at the touch and a wonder of things not seen.

Our eyes see clear in the crystal rain, heaven-sent and fresh.



Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.