I sat under the rain and the brim of my hat dripped as eaves drip and through the brim of my hat dripping as eaves I watched the leaves handing those drops heaven to earth one palm at a time, as though breaking the water’s fall. I moved under the skirt of the tree and let her shadow me, the arc of the rain drawing an ephemeral circle where the tree’s limbs reached, and stayed there a while, while the large drops collected above, larger and then larger and then falling with a plash unhindered onto the brim of my hat, as though the eaves had shrunk, or the storm had grown.

At a certain point, when walking in the rain, there is no more hurry: your internal weather has met the outer one and made peace: you are wetness, I am wet. I sat under the tree as the moist of rain ran over me; dust was peeled away and grateful I felt the dissolution. Cars hurried here, hurried there, annoyed at the inconvenience they themselves of their convenience had created: the hurt felt greater when isolation is your own doing, your own undoing. I looked up as to receive heaven, its blessing its anointing, and the water dropped from the leaves to my forehead, from forehead to nose to chin, from chin to chest. Dissolution of the self.

Should I go? Should I go in? There’s no reason to begin. I know the slow slow erosion gathers us all, happily, sadly, whether we run from rain, or into it.

“Walking out of a dream” by Gilad Benari @ deviantart.com

Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2014