The Cleansing

Black and grey from each edge of the horizon,
The Rain falls down and washes so much clean,
It is a light rain really, made more intense,
By wind and rain, cold and fog.

I have been in the rain before,
Alabama rain,
Oklahoma Rain,
Rain in the Jungles of Central America,
Rain in Monsoon torrents in Korea,
Even rain in the Desert, fleeting but dangerous flowing down the wadis,
And it all meant nothing; it was just the condition of the world in which I was living.

But now I look to the rain to pour down,
And wash away my pain,
Wash me clean, like a newborn,
That I will see the truth of myself,
Not just the things I have done.

Pour down and reach my very soul,
And rinse the crimson stain,
Which drips from it all the time it seems,
Just as the rain drips from my hooded jacket.

And so I peer into the sky,
Blessing the black and grey that stretches across the horizon,
And cursing any flash of blue which signals the end of the falling moisture,
Which means the earth will become dry and dusty once more,
And my heart and soul will become dry like the sands of the Mojave,
And the stains that are there will remain.

So let the rains come,
Softly, torrential, cold or warm,
And cleanse that which ails me,
So I might live in peace.

Quincy R. Tatum
March 13, 2012