rain wasn’t always like it is now:
instead of falling it came from a hidden dimension
bringing wet the soil would welcome, wet we’d try to collect & shape
once rain swarmed like bees, inundating fields or
selectively touching only blue collars, only animals with stubby tails.
hurricanes and tornadoes were rituals where the queen took over (filled) the sky
with unexplainable presence
air so rich with oxygen the rain became acidic, turning giant ferns to mush,
eating away dinosaurs skins to polish their bones
when the moon couldn’t yet pull the oceans but focused the moisture exchange,
creating deficits & surpluses, hoping the right amount in the right place
would distract gravity
wind was meatier then, strumming lunar strings,
drinking lustily yet never letting go, a river spewing its own tail.
when during summer water got so thick & redolent
we cultivated plants that hid the smells, silenced what we couldn’t decide
were myth, history or infomercials
noah’s rain was 40 days and nights of drop shaped vessels evacuating earth,
darkening the skies with all the buildings and records they destroyed–
what we thought volcanos were camouflaged incinerators
when I come back rains at its best—unpredictable, generous & nourishing.
we still have roofs and slickers to keep from overdosing;
indoors we’re naked out of reverence, deeply joyed
when our cupped hands fill with rain from elsewhere