why does everyone have to make
so much noise at 6 in the morning?
with their bare feet on the hardwoods, doors
and drawers opening and closing, clothes hangars
scraping on the rod, spoons clanking in cereal bowls,
shampoo bottles falling in the shower, hairdryer
on low, books being stacked, papers shuffled,
backpacks zippered, school bus striving up the hill,
a bird singing under the awning.
will everyone please get to the
places where they need to be;
I need everyone to be quiet so I
can lie here in my dark room
and listen to the rain fall.
it’s not enough to know it’s raining,
or even see it. I need to hear it--a steady rain,
not aggressive but firm,
not a flooder but a cleanser,
to wash out the dust and leaf pollen
in the air, the bird droppings off the car,
rinse grief off the sidewalk, disappointments
and lingering hurts off the steps,
get at resentments stored
deep in the wood on the back deck.
let the downpour loosen lofty goals
and ambitions from the roof, collect
in the gutter then pass through
the downspout into the ground.
let the pooling run down the street against
the curbs toward the storm drains,
taking with it regrets and humiliations,
defensive pride that rises up
when I feel foolish or underestimated.
and by all means let the streams converge and
boil in their meeting, and let them swirl all around
the pitch of earth they would trap in the center, but
be assured they will find Hope there to be a
most stubborn and sturdy island.