Bones

Parched skin shudders: crackling parchment,

split lips open: unformed words,

pressed fingers, pressed palms,

ache heavenwards—pray.

While yearning eyes implore,

tell of a sinner dying of thirst.

Oh come, oh Jesus. Come.

The split-open shoved-in loneliness

cuts into the soul and sucks,

sucks it clean of meat and marrow.

Dried out soul flesh means no more

blue-promise-sky. Means dehydration,

means desiccated heart.

Oh come, oh Jesus. Come.

Stretched out days of dryness

and empty eye search bring me

reeling. Dusty palms arched sky-ward,

I beg for an answer. Bone-dry.

Oh come, oh Jesus. Come.

Rain

You think of the rain as something that is good and deep,
cleansing and loving,
profitable, helpful, kind.
Beneficial and mothering,
curvy soft,
sweet and clear,
beautiful wet,
majestic and profound.

But sometimes it is none of these things.

Sometimes it is vengeful and dark,
disturbing and wrathful,
angry hurtful,
sharp and cruel,
hell-bent and slippery,
cutting and dangerous,
sleek, slick, slashing through,
flooding irate,
fist clenched pounding,
trying to break and break and break right in.

No matter which way you twist and turn
curl and crouch
scrunch down
hunch over
stoop
or kneel.

It beats on.

Unremiting, unwavering, unfaltering, unceasing, unending.

A perpetual wave of washed over wrath.

Breath remains uncaught.
Water rushes open mouths,
floods brain-thoughts.

The wet licks your toes,
snags at your soul.

You do not understand:
how something so life-giving
becomes immense and dangerous.

It scares.
It scares because you cannot define it, cannot beat it, and it will drown you if it wants.
It will drown you in the deepness of all things
that are both gentle and powerful;
it will suck you into the mystery
and you will chew on the bones of those things that are both
big and small, mighty and humble, hurtful and kind.

And you will wonder if you yourself have a bit of the rain in you.