Rain

During this dry spell
watch this farmer.
Too much rain is depression.
Not enough
and with every passing rainless day
the smile grows hollower,
eye contact grows briefer,
and the movements of the body
grow rigid and clumsy.

In this sunny summer
I smiled,
I grew,
and now
I hope to cry soon.
I feel it there, right here—
shirt clinging to my back,
block of pain suspended
in the air. I walk slowly, trying
to make contact.
I imagine the moment, all at once,
when this anonymous heaviness takes shape
in clear droplets splashing
down my face, my smile
refreshed, my growth resumed.

I put on Mood Indigo, Sweet and Lovely,
Come Talk To Me.
I'm not sure what he wants.
I set out two mugs
of bitter dandelion coffee:
one for my willing ear
and one for my sadness.
I don't know
if he'll come
but I'm making space
and I want him to know.
To welcome a friend
he must know he's wanted.
He must find space.
And he must be utterly free
never to come.