Raindrops connect us to the clouds,
sometimes in whisper, sometimes
in a bullhorn from the balcony,
getting wet is getting the message.
Like love, at the border of a family,
there’s always never enough to go around
unless we stand in it, faces up,
hands outstretched like pails and a chalice.
It’s up there, what we need down here.
Balloons, kites, and prayers know this;
the falling down, the coming to terms,
is the simple miracle of our blue planet.
Wet back, dry throat,
the clouds migrate across oceans of sand.
A cup of water to the least of these
is grace breaking open the damned.
