The Raindance

It's raining, again     (and again),
Heaven is dripping down to earth in little drops
of clear, and pure, coolness.
The tears, they fall like the sun once fell
long ago;
the wetness retains itself
and the evidence of coming & going
is substantial—        Seasons change,
but the rain always seems to fall, and,
deep within the soil,
parables sprout & bloom and all that is left to see
is a slew of vibrantly ugly colors that cannot
be named.
It's raining, again     (and again),
and I can see the new oceans
rising over my feet and up to my ankles;
I can see my own city becoming
a city of tears, and I
can feel it fresh on my skin.
This ocean rises & rises, and its waves
will soon be moved by the moon—     I can see
the stars coming down to earth
in dull reflections
of what should remain above,
and I can hear the heartbeat of the world
drip away
as it collides with itself and ripples, gently,
across the stars.
Parables sprout & bloom and come
& go, but what good are they
when all there is to learn is the feeling
of soggy ankles and the absence
of dry land—     the absence of any land at all,
and the sky that came to earth
in oozing,
wet
laughter—?