Heaven collapsing

Looks like we could

get rain

any time

with skies look liking like that.

There’s a peek of blue up there, but

look at those clouds

rolling in.

That’s rain if I’ve ever seen it. 

And we need it.

When did it rain last?
A couple of months, at least.

Two or three months, at least.

Everyone

is

calling for rain, too, and 

I wonder

if that’s the same as it’s always been:

everyone needs the rain, 

and some people 

sing,

others promise,

some sacrifice,

some plead

to whomever will listen.

Maybe the roles have changed a little,

but it feels like the rain is a good measure for

how little

we’ve changed;

we still need,

we still cry,

we still sing,

we still promise,

we still plead.

We still need the rain.

And what else can you do when it’s been 

bone dry

for months?

We all know the rainy season will come,

but knowing is starting to

turn to

hoping;

it’s been

long,

dry,

seasons

the last two years;

the rains still come,

but it seems like someone is tinkering up there.

It’s so hot

and so dry now,

green grass isn’t a thing except where there’s luxury.

And the leaves fall in August now.

When the rains come, will they be enough?

Will they be in balance with the droughts?

What if it’s the snows that come instead?

What if it’s cold that awaits us?

What if

the dry seasons

stop

and it’s ice fields awaiting us?

Wouldn’t Sisyphus and Tantalus feel seen?
Wouldn’t they feel heard?

More traitors in their fold who have led us to where we find ourselves?

The clouds are moving in fast. 

I don’t think I wore the right jacket.

It isn’t all that water-resistant.

If it rains,

I’ll be soaked to the bones.

We need it,

but I’ll be soaked to the bones.

That’s how it feels to wait for the rains right now, 

in some ways.

I’m selfish.

We are withering

and I have the wrong jacket on.

It reminds me of a story

a doctor told me:

he asked me if I knew what trenchfoot was,

and I said

kind of.

He told me 

when the foot gets wet

and stays wet

for long enough

— not even that long — 

trenchfoot can set in;

the foot turns

red

or

maybe it turns blue,

it starts to swell,

there’s blisters and open sores,

the foot can even just

rot right off.

All from being wet for too long. 

I read up on it after that conversation and the name came about during

World War I:

soldiers’ feet would get wet and freeze and rot

while they were living in trenches.

Sometimes things are

that

simple. 

Imagine that:

blood and mud and rain and pain

and explosions and gunfire

and screaming and howling and shrieking

and 

battlefield medicine

and

battlefield promotions,

and through it all,

the rains,

the mud,

the cold,

in the night everyone’s feet are rotting off,

and there’s someone moving a flag,

a piece on a board and

lamenting their footwear. 

It may not be 

that it hasn’t rained enough in my life,

but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been raining this whole time.

I see a woman in the doorway of a bakery.

I don’t think she’s dressed for the rain either.

I don’t know what her dress is made of, 

but it looks expensive

and

it looks like it shouldn’t get wet.

She’s sticking her hand out the door

and craning her head out to peek up

at the sky.

She seems worried.

Maybe it’s her shoes she doesn’t want to get wet

or maybe her hair.

Maybe she has to walk home.

Maybe this everyday worry means a lot.

Maybe getting wet is the last she needs and 

I feel that.

I know about black clouds over my head

and

I know about damp misery.

Is it worse to be soaked physically or emotionally?

I don’t know, but

I know I’m not dressed for the rain either. 

The clouds look like they might break

a bit,

and maybe that’s good; 

I’ve heard it’s a bad sign

to rain on Halloween.

I heard that somewhere once.

I can’t remember where,

maybe some small town

I drove through;

some old codger

yakking

about the good ol’ days,

the glory days,

the days where it rained enough

but not too much

and summer came in in June

and let it self out in September

and a man could rest easy knowing his calendar matched what he wanted to see

and what he could understand.

I guess that’s always the way with lamenting about change and fearing tomorrow.

There’s that first drop.

It lands on the back of my neck.

I hope it doesn’t rain too much or too hard,

but the rain will do what the rain will do, and

I am jealous.

I want to know how it feels to fall with so much confidence.

I want to know

how to let it all go sometimes,

to crash down

so fearlessly,

so tirelessly

it sounds like heaven collapsing.