We who drink rain straight from the sky borrow
patience from trees. Feel drops pellet our tongues
like liquid fallen from mother sparrow,
soak pharynx, larynx, even haze our lungs
as moisture circles moon on cloudy nights.
We who drink rain feel our clothes embrace it,
how it permeates each fiber, each blight
and sore and eager pore. How we trace it
bodywide, our eyes open but blinded,
our flooded faces sensing Noah
pounded by the Deluge, soon reminded
to plant the first vineyard, crush grapes for a
prime cup of wine. We who drink rain wallow
with spirits. We’re baptized by each swallow.
Roger Armbrust
May 29, 2010
