The storm is a ways away,
maybe a mile or more.
The first drops dot the window
then stream in tears as they have for days.
The grey roil hints at a darker day,
and the wind suggests the straightest trees
have a weakness. The wet soaks in, leaks out,
even the promise of flowers loses color.
The silver lining, in the smile of an umbrella, is child’s play.
The adult version wearies, works, and wonders when the waiting
ends. Prayer is a rain boot. What comes from the ground,
in spring, reminds us, at the Resurrection,
there won’t be a dry eye in the house.