Love reign o’er me, rain on me, rain on me.
—Pete Townshend
And it does rain, not just a sprinkle
but sheets of rain, pelting rain,
a punishing, unapologetic rain,
and I huddle beneath the thin shelter
where some government agency
must have once thought a map should be.
But there is no map. The metaphor
is not lost on me. I watch the rain
turn to hail. It makes an angry music
on the metal roof as it covers the dirt
with white.
We who pray for rain do not pray
for it to be like this—we imagine
perhaps something tender, something soft,
something gentle like the voice of a lover,
like the hum that wraps us when words
are lost inside kisses. But rain, like love,
rules us in ways we could never predict.
The road is no longer dusty nor dry,
and after twenty minutes I leave my thin canopy
and run into the drizzle. Everywhere is puddle,
a playground for those who are fond
of such play. I play. The sky is gray
and rumbles as if to say it will do
as it damn well wants. The rain
is cool, and my body churns until
my skin is hot again, so hot that when
the rain comes down hard again
this time I do not hide.