Unafraid of Rain
The rain comes across the valley, tapping on the windows.
Not a ferocious rain, gentle, the kind of rain
you would not mind walking in. Warm in the summer,
broken up with patches of sun promising bows of color.
Rain that taps on the window, like a child calling
“Come out and play.” For a moment, you consider it
before you wake. Before the summer rain reveals itself
as a dream, the last one of a restless night
where you lived in different worlds every two hours,
each so real it takes time to adjust to this one,
the one you live in day after day. It takes time
to know one from the other.
At times you mourn. You do. It is hard work, reality,
full of unruly emotions, things, (and people)
who are in need of understanding.
Yourself not least amount them. You lean too often on faith,
Happy that despite the tomes and scholarship,
the rants and raves, your God is a simple one,
a realist who loves you through the litany of mistakes
your demons insist on listing gleefully each morning when you wake..
A God of forgiveness you finally opened yourself to,
asking him to crawl into your skin, into your belly,
asking him to arm you against the niggly beasties
that haunt your mornings. Mostly, he does.
Mostly your practice works, and sends you out into the world,
unafraid of rain.
About this poem
A poem about faith. About depression. About this morning. Poetry is rarely about one thing.
The picture was taken in the Hudson Valley of NY.