These Hazy Days

Rainwalks

I love to walk, particularly in the rain,

when it numbs all feeling 

in my hands

and creeks roll off my eyebrows.

I am a kind of cycle in the rain,

on my long, meandering walks.

I am a cycle of solitude,

of the way a river overflows

in thawing season.

Water pours around, into, and through me.

I am but a vessel of movement.

All things that surround me --

glinting hawthorn berries

tentative tongues of moss

one lone gull against the sky --

are engaged in a slow dance,

swaying and turning in place

while gulches run over

with rain-wine,

blessed.

I too am blessed.

I am empty, my skin made of tin.

What a lovely sound the rain makes

as it falls onto my body

and fills the moving world

with its exhilarating songs

of change.