In Rain

“If your hope is that this life will be protected and prolonged, that your comfort zone as you understand it will never be challenged, that you will never have to face the reality of being mortal and limited, God help you. It’s a recipe for illusion, terror and the killing of the soul.”

―Rowan Williams, Archbishop’s Easter Sunday Sermon 2005

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Dear Alex,

Monday writing is mandatory
if you dare dabble in
the yeast of yearning
that flares as the sun
proof shield
dotes on
your mole.

From Monday to mole, guacamole to cabaret, the Spring showers are following us like an itch.

The drip seems unending, brief enough to let us daydream, drawn out still in the wrap of a week. When things get wet, their colors deepen, texture softens. Water is the medium for change, for better or worse, till death and routine do us part.

We say we don’t like routines but they seem to reign over us. On schedule, we feel prepared, preserved in a can of premeditated additives. I get up early before dawn except in the weekends, wired to complete a host of tasks in mind and panic. On my daily checklist, I dwarf into a tick mark, a mole, Monday dry and drained of humor.

By Wednesday now, the drizzle goes on. I cross the woods to meet my boss, hair locked in moisture and gray. Don’t know how long this can go on -

pacing cartoons

pounding on palate

door dash, plop.

My days are beads gathered to relent for Easter.

Shivering, I cup my hands to receive

the rain.

Yours,
Kate