When I feel the rain fall again, I’ll know
to begin this ten-fingered dance.
Its ragged edges and rough sounds
catch the water and collect its story —
from sky to peak, through wood and moss,
off asphalt, boulders, steel. I’ll hear the patter
of rain on the earth above, crawl forth
and speak of the small things I see.
Mud and leaves, wet stones, moist bark.
I’ve waited too long. Now my work begins.