The rain, its consonants

and vowels, asking us

to turn the volume down

and move toward the window.

A gentle call to order,

telling us there’s a secret

we’ve not been told.

We listen, as if to learn it,

as if thin panes of the heart depend on it.

The rain’s voice

watering the thirsty grain of memory,

softening the impassable blue hills ahead

where our spirits may find

their places, pale stones

in the creek bed, gleaming.