The Rain – Lent Twenty`Four

The rain falls
Bathes the forest in silver
Even the pavement reflects
the light of unseen stars
I walk a ghost among the lichen
All is silent except the drumbeat
of raindrops falling from leaves
This is not the land where stones shout
It is rather a land where the skies weep
Here where the lone coyote prowls
it’s out of hunger for soup not bread
by which multitudes were fed
Yet the walker presses on in the rain
It is not hunger that is on his mind
Nor is it the weather He is warm
within the soft folds of his gear
as warm as in a lover’s arms
He knows he is a fool!
The watch in his dry pocket
ticks to eternity Seconds Minutes Hours Days
He is a worm crossing history’s street
stretched out along the wet pavement!
In the end a dried-up old scrotum
who will go from wet to cold
Cold to ash Ash to dust at last
All this he knows
And with the knowledge comes the wisdom:
      the pride of man is in his great strength
      the love of God is in his greater mercy


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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