Rain at Four A.M.
by T. Wooten

    The rain starts softly,
    then suddenly is pebbling
    down. I hear it hitting sill,
    then with throatier sound
    hitting ground. It came up
    fast, untutored by the season,
    overtaken by desire to enter
    the world and make its mark.
    Where did it come from and
    to what end? Somewhere high
    where the air is thin and moisture
    condescends to lend itself
    to the elemental plan, where
    light is like a petal upon the
    flower, the ornament of sturdier
    matter, where wind rouses itself
    from its divan and, lifting baton,
    confuses passion with love and
    rages across the earth. Then like
    the great chaos that is all beginnings,
    a force unknown moves its hand and
    the next thing we know it is raining,
    the sepulchral sound of  feet pattering
    upon stone and we see to what end
    all has transpired: to bring sleep,
    that luxury and balm of the mind.





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