The Slow Approach of Rain

i.

The sky contained in the picture windows
at Andre’s is still a marvel of blue and cotton.
Over mint tea, Brynn and I deliberate faith,
the sky behind her gathering a dark calm.

Behind her, too, is a one-legged woman
in a knee-length navy skirt. Her silver hair
reminds me of an egret, each movement
attuned to her wooden crutches.

On our saucers, a heart of dark chocolate
wrapped in silver foil, unwrapped swiftly.
I watch the woman wing toward
the approaching storm.

ii.

In the side chapel at Christ the King,
I find three types of weather:

a snow of white roses in vases,
the small sun of a monstrance

with rays like swords,
and a clear evening’s moon, a wafer,

etched with a familiar body.
This persistent hunger,

the thrum of rain on the roof,
resplendent echo in the empty church.

And this over-chilled chapel
finds me wrapped in a cotton shawl

asking if faith is a scattered manna
I’ve forgotten to gather.

I search the growing darkness
for a small switch. When I find it,

I hesitate. Will this flood of light
reveal a certain nakedness?

Will there still be room for beauty?
The one-legged woman and the One God,

as if breaking through multiple inflections
of water tell me yes, yes.

iii.

In the comfort of a home
not my own, I glimpse fire—cracks
of lightning that break the sky
like a pavement, and the small flames

of a candlelit brick fireplace, a mug of tea
between my fingers. On the mug,
a ship, its one white sail dipped
into the sky like a wing.

Outside, the rain remembers itself
to the soil, to roots, to people
who run through it into cars, into homes,
laughing. It’s as if we’ve all awakened

in the middle of a fountain
and recovered a child-like delight
in the drenching. And the rain
leaves nothing dry.