Even angels love rain
the way it
knows when to curl into haystack
clouds & when to let go spattering
leaves & grass trickling along each
inner stem
the way it
splatters dry dirt & loudly clatters
like hooves on tin roofs
the way it
almost arrives then blows by high
on a dry wind that removes what
moisture remains driving the prophet
to a raven-circled brook
the way it
comes when it comes disrupting the dust
which puffs into the air & then
drops in dampness merging in mud
congealing together
the way it
declares your dependence little one
on the wind’s whims & divine design
the way it
cuts ravines & reminds you how
your planet needs to be washed clean
& how without watering would
never grow anything

You do not have to be good.
The Autumn Name of God