The sound of rain’s patient jig, like a blindman’s cane tapping, pondering.

Reminding us Earth can’t always see, that she has blind spells

When she must rap all inches of soil with her white-grey cane.

The tinkling of rain against a river, almond-eyed rain, looking out on the myriad-subtle world,

Slanted eyes of rain in sheets washing against the wind; the rain tastes of almonds, a pungent cleanness.

Ascetic, narrow faces of rain fall, bleary-eyed from fatigue.

Thoughtful, having studied the skies and currents for days to know the most propitious time to let themselves go, 

Rain’s gaunt faces are daubed with ash for a religious procession through the skies. 

-Susan Efird-