POEM: The Rain Makes Me A Contemplative

It forces me inward in a way that nothing else can.

The mountains make me humble,
Forging rivers make me weak.
Stars evoke the mystery of me.
Autumn leaves squeeze out the gratefulness.
The snow, like a mother, holds me in the crook of her arm
When I need holding most.

Only the rain presses her fingers to her lips
And invites me to whisper, not speak a word.
Only the light drumming of water sluicing
Down the gutter spout, the ticking seconds of
Time as it ages, reminds me how I need to be mindful and kind.

Only the gray light of a rainy morning insists that
I spend a holy moment in wonder:
Of the illusions that I hold,
The doubts that I carry like scuffed luggage.
Everything.

Of course, it brings the flowers with it too; greening pastures
As if a charm for the new mowing season.
It flits as soundless as a sparrow's heart.
Like an earnest want, wanting what is best for me;
It seeks a center where stillness lives
Where everything else will always wait.