ninanevermore

Since this one was inspired by a question that noblwish asked in her journal. I posted the first draft as a response to her. I regret that now; first drafts are crap. Second drafts are only slightly better. This probably has a few more rewrites yet to go. Now all of the many friends of noblewish think I am a hack.

Who am I kidding? Of course I'm a hack. All poets are hacks.

When it Rains in Heaven

It only rains in Heaven on those days
when you feel in the mood to walk in the rain
and then, with a million splashes, like a blessing,
it falls from above,
always the right temperature,
neither too hot or too cold,
as warm as a mother's caress,
as warm as your mother's fingers
trailing down the sides of your face;
it gets in your eyes like sunlight
so you use your hand as a visor
to keep it at bay while you laugh
as you dance through the puddles
that form in your path
(but only if you are the type
who enjoys stomping through puddles;
if not, they form to the edge of your course
and you easily dodge them
and dance past your reflections
on dozens of liquid mirrors along side you).

In Heaven, the rain always stops
at the moment just prior to the one
when you tire of it falling on your skin.
The instant the sun comes out
your clothes and your hair turn dry
and you feel cleansed and glorious
and a little sad for all the rain showers on earth
that you did't let yourself walk in
because you feared what people might think
to see you ambling down the sidewalk
soaked to the skin, your hair plastered to your head,
as wet and blissful as a newborn
after a warm wash in the sink
with the sun streaming through the kitchen window
to anoint your perfect, newly bathed body.

-Nina Erickson
(c) 2005