She Is the Rain

She might as well talk for hours
for her voice soothes like April showers.
It deserves my admiration like a cool night’s rain on a tin roof,
easing me to rest, never having to undress,
never requesting love’s proof.
Who is she? I don’t know.
But on the streets she is in the flow of waters rushing past;
my bare feet cool at last!
She collects in puddles and in pools
and makes me out to be such a wise fool.
She is the softness of the rain…
Oh blessing, that drinking water heals pain.
She is the oceans carving out continents to her design,
the falling through my fingers, never to be “mine.”
Maybe she is 70 percent of me —
perhaps the earth does end at the seas.
At all times she is both inescapable and never to be found.
By her travel is so easy, but lost within and deaf is sound.
Nevertheless, she chooses where she shall land,
and I can only catch so much in my hand!
It hardly rains at all here,
yet she is every day of the year.
Thank God, I may never control her…
and I wish my pride never were.
She may never fall again,
but now May flowers rise within.
She is the garden…


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