by BEN RICHARDSON - March 27, 2019
Rain is the language of the gods
Every river, creek and stream flows from their inkwells
Radiant rods of lightning scribe like quills onto clammy canvases
6,500 mother tongues, yet every soul knows
Each mesmerizing droplet forms a new Rosetta Stone
Divine pitter after patter supersedes human screed
For the splatter on soft skin endows us to be freed
Among us the flawed fools take shelter at first glance
Each torrential poem urges an epic to advance
Lest the floods begin to silence our quivvered cries
Let the rain speak strong, from the gods in the skies.