Rain

She holds her arms to the sky,
bare arms, and thin.
Water runs down her face uplifted,
the raindrops trace her cheeks
and soak her white dress to the skin.
With eyes shut,
she dances
like grass that bends in the wind.

How long without that voice in her ear,
without that whisper?
She used to call it the voice of God,
fold her hands, and coax it out at night.
Now it's gone silent.
(She was a child, long ago.)
Coax it back with a dance in the rain,
and remember how it sounded...

Thrill of motion, blessed dynamism,
feet and hands and clear clean water.
Rising grass and falling rain,
and in-between free of thought,
free of fear,
free of doubt.
Is this the voice she always knew?
Is this the voice she remembered?

(Photo credit: "GOCCIA000000'Choice' - Scelta d'amore di Marco Musso" on Flickr)

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