“nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands”
That’s where you’re wrong, e.e. (can I call you e.?)
Because when you’ve been in a drought and it finally rains,
Rains hard, sky green, trees whip-dancing like Salome,
Each drop reaches in like the tiniest hand, a clean
Well-meaning touch of good intent and love,
And suddenly I approach believing in a God
Who has a plan that we’ll eventually be fond of,
Once we learn the particulars she had in mind.
And even when we find ourselves still caught
In hell, in misery, injustice not
Yet made right, the pouring rain is pushing pause,
Is washing fresh, is resurrection, is applause.
I can’t remember ever being more
In love with the rain, or anyone, not ever.