Raindrop Stories
It finally rained this weekend in Tyler. It had been several weeks, and I almost felt ashamed begging for rain while my North Carolina friends still feel drenched by the fallout of a hurricane.
It brought to mind a poem that I wrote last spring. What if every raindrop tells its own story? Lands with its own purpose?
Is my God big enough for that?
This poem was first published by The Way Back to Ourselves Literary Journal, Spring 2024.
Raindrop Stories
Every raindrop
bears a story
incubated—
moss blankets hug
timid tears
loosed in silence
beads glide
like terns, brushing
stone-stillness
drizzle buffs
the skins of branches,
and tickles
the plump drips
to crack crisp
the sleepy leaves
tossed in ripples
above dancing rivers
and blooming heaves—
these opened wombs
shoot droplets skyward,
as liquid offspring
bursting heavenward
in love-lept offering
to pregnant clouds
who birth the sodden—
when the drama of dew
awaits the opus
of falling.