Impervious

Oct 21 2019

The sound of rain

so steady, I forget it's there

is white noise

on a dark day.

And then

when it comes hammering down,

patters on the roof

drums on the awnings

raps against the glass.

Or wind-driven, slants-in,

as if small rubber pellets

had been sprayed along the wall.

When there is no forgetting,

and I straighten in my chair

acutely aware

of the force of nature

just beyond the door.

The comforting sound of rain

snug and warm inside.

Yet to be exposed

in this unseasonable fall

in all our naked human frailty

would be death,

no fossil fuel

no roof overhead.

Like a kid

I love a big yellow slicker

wide-brim hat to match.

And plunging into puddles, mucking through bogs

in thick rubber gumboots

with heavy woollen socks

feeling impervious.

Not yet snow,

but until it rains itself out

the earth overflows

and rivers run like spring,

boiling over rocks

clawing at their banks.

Yes, it will eventually end

it always does.

Because there are no Biblical floods

in this age of skeptics

and rational thought.

No subsistence

huddled in caves

or praying for sun.

We are modern men

and listen for the rain

to tuck us into bed

lull us sound asleep.

Except for the drip-drip-drip

on the bare kitchen floor

beneath some leaky shingles,

dry rot in the ceiling

gutters blocked by leaves.

Because water finds its level,

inexorable

and incompressible

and insinuating itself

until nowhere is spared,

pouring down from heaven

without judgment or pause

no matter what.

And in the calm after the storm,

when the silence seems loud

and the world is cleanly washed,

there will be no rainbow

when darkness falls.