Pacific Review Editors
Rain rattles, paddles, and pours
right into the pores of my skin.
Or (in other words) Baptizes.
Cleaning the Earth,
Gathering and showing us dirt
In places we didn’t know it existed
I listen to the rain,
The kind that helps mothers
and grandmothers to sleep,
If the Noah in us could fall asleep too,
Or if he’s always still just
I open my eyes, reach for the paddles, and row.
I gather the ones
he accidentally left behind.