Only When It Rains

In so many pieces of literature, the rain has been used as a tool, a metaphor, for the washing away of old sins, grudges, bitter emotions, and allows new, brighter sentiments to take their place.

It is pouring as I write. For the first time in a long time, I begged for my God to release me from my anger. It doesn't always show, and not for lack of trying, but I have become so angry over the last year. So I walked out into the deluge, and I cried for the washing away of my burdens. For all the things I have said against where I live, the one thing I count on is a good autumn shower.

The Cleansing

It started as a sprinkling, some cloud god flinging little token droplets down.
They dot my eyelashes, dust my hair, and my irritation grows tenfold.
My world has come to that: an irritation, and I seek to be rid of these vexing details.

I picked up my flute, a tarnished piece with the fingerprints of a twelve-year-old
crisscrossing over the keys. I'm looking at the past, and I wonder why I stopped.
My lips know where to go, how to push the air over the oval opening,
and my fingers dance, in steps of a waltz, a ballad
that my eyes have never seen, but my heart has always been sobbing.

I think of the rain outside, and I see myself in that rain, playing with the wind,
the rain drops on the silver like dew on a cobweb.
I put the flute down. My heart is breaking, but I deny it, dismissing my song as garbage.
My heart has been a stone of Provencal marble since my sunlight burned out.

I hear the rain, and I curse a bitter sigh. It comes in droves of drummers and cymbals.
It is dark outside, but I care not for the dangers of the unseen.
I face what fear is left in my heart, and I am outside.
The aggregate concrete under my callused soles is slick and frigid.
My hair, that dances and rebels against all attempt at good behavior,
sticks to my neck in veins of mahogany and coffee.

I blink hard and quick, and the rain melts my fortress of burned bridges and repressed love.
My palms are Mary's agonized pleas, but I do not ask for the return of a good son.
I ask for the return of sweeter days, softer words, and lighter laughter.
I ask for the purity I once knew as my own.
And it ends in a downpour, and I am, for the moment, at the mercy of fate.
I look to the skies for redemption.