Rain 
 
Rain arrives with the urgency of a debt   
collector, pounds on walls of tar, concrete   
and hair, grabbing dried leaves and   
bottle cap coins as currency.       
 
Rain, silver reed, touch of a Christmas   
angel upon parched soil, finds its   
mirror-twin in a limpid pool of glass,   
content as a sleeping child.       
 
Rain, splinter upon skin, grows from ant   
to army, slicing through air like arrows.   
It drums on our roof and needles our   
windows until night falls like a mother's       
 
blanket, softening it to a whisper.   
You let its scent fill your breath   
with soaked mud, awakened leaf   
and a hint of new hope.