Palm fronds reflected in raindrops on a car windshield. Courtesy of arbyreed/Flickr.
I woke to rain
and wondered if that meant
the sky was trying
to be a prayer. Teary-eyed
and drooping are the clouds
inside my voice.
No one ever taught
water to speak. Instead
shapes form
wherever there is space—
On the sidewalk
a thin veneer, on trees
a jeweled collar. Having
wants does not
mean God
is real any more than
water makes us clean.
I’m not sold on anyone’s
goodness, but hell, I know
exists. In this place
where even the land
is tired children breathe
out twilight
in their cries
and my eyes cannot count
all the windows
kept closed.