In a Rain of Stillness
Sometimes, rain does not make a noise.
You notice it has been raining for a while
before a chill enters the doorway of your skin.
You cannot hear the silence anymore.
All noise has been washed away. All anger,
all sadness, all the houses, are blurred watercolors.
Later the rain punctuates absence —
a calligraphy of words wets the pavement,
no movement of sound for miles.
This is what my father heard
when he did not wear his hearing aid:
a rain of noiselessness; a motion of lips.
When he finally wore a hearing aid, he stopped:
what’s that? It was a bird singing
the distance to him, soft rain.
Rain has a scolding voice.
It reminds you of every mistake
you ever made in your life,
and some mistakes you never made.
It raises its voice
thinking we will hear its demands better.
Rain dances on sidewalks.
Editor’s Note: Rain is the image used in this poem to convey a multitude of meanings — joy, mistakes, silence, and the absence of silence. It’s up to the reader to decide which wet sidewalk to follow.