A Passing Storm


The sounds of hard rain are clattering off pine cones 
or sizzling off the hot skin of water
or into the open mouth of an apple blossom — 

the rain arrived stamping in the field as a darkness 
like ravens. It brought no assurances, 
snickering like a bully. Glancing into the stars failed;

crickets went into hibernating; you could count silence.
I wanted the music; not the haunting quiet 
cascading like flight. It was the same when my son left — 

not much was true anymore. Only my questioning watched
for silence to break. It never did. The moon swam above, 
nude, with precise long strokes, in my sorrow. 

Sometimes, the rain feels like nails rippling my skin.
When I look for truth from yesterday, it reminds me:
failure is the wretchedness of trying.

Then other times, I remember goats on sheer cliffs 
always ascend without fear or falling. The reason 
mesquite has long taproots is to hold on to life. 

Then the rain hushes and dissolves. Ravens curl into air.
The clouds uncover the stars and crickets sing to them.
Then I hear the music not questioning, but answering.