A Spring Rain

This is it.

This is the cold clear rain
That falls from its own weight
Out of a soft gray sky.

There is no storm.
There is no wind
To drive it hither and yon.
This rain falls straight to earth from the sky.

But gently.
Quietly.

Outside my window
The drops tick down
On gravel and stone.

There is gurgling
In the water spout
At the roof's edge.

Birds
Chirp their approval.

Worms
Turn in the loosened soil.

Flowers
Bend over in gratitude.

And high atop the mountain,
Into and out of the crevices,
God assumes the various forms
Of the ever-changing mist.

Rising.
Spreading.
Drifting.
Descending.

Looking on.
Approving.