The storm slaps down the trees’ hands
that reach in prayerful supplication,
or maybe to protect themselves as I would.
Many inevitably fall, which I have
many times in this stormy existence,
to the steady beating and beat-down
brought upon us from above.
Some splash-land upon the soggy grass,
some divert the rainbow runoff
from the oil-slicked blacktop driveway,
others recline their spindly backs
upon the gravelly roof shingles.
They look up at the path upon which
the watery host forced-marched them here.
If I was to fall, I’d lie like those
on the angled roofline, eyes tracing
the individual drops’ paths,
feeling assured we’d one day rise and
find our vaporous way back to the clouds.
Your faith assures me that could be,
even if I’m never anointed like that driveway,
even if I fall to buffeting by my will and not
some unseen baptismal force in the clouds.
I can’t really expect to be resurrected
like you raindrops after becoming one
with the earth beneath its green shroud.
But I’m willing, willing to faithfully face
these storms again and again if it means
I have a chance to see the good in you all
when my tearful tempests end
and the Sun comes back once more.
Not so religious or blasphemous a piece as you might think. Just the freely dropped rainy Saturday thoughts of a fallen altar boy whose faith has been shaken by the floods and gales of doubt that have battered my spirit over years of seeing and knowing too much evil. Shaken, but not shattered, though. As I said, “I’m willing’.”