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Touched
Angela Arnold
This morning, all it rains
is drops: small,
tight,
smudge-makers.
But last night it
really rained. Rain was a wild hundred-handed
applause, a mad splatter
of endearments: kissy smacks and snappy
backslaps of affection, fat falling
loving mother seeds that drummed and pummelled
like music — like yeast — of life, drops rising
to a crescendo of affirmation. And
hot, inside themselves.
These morning drops from a lax sky
are only their worldly
stand-ins, falling,
straight,
into a bewilderness of loss.
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