To Call the Goddess
The old man lost faith in rain,
stopped praying, whispered soft,
I’ve had enough. I give.
How many poems can you give,
brother, to call the goddess of the rain?
A shadow in a sheep’s clothes, soft
wings flutter, a sound so soft
you stop the car, pull over and give
a listen to the whistle of a train.
To hear the rain fall soft again? I’ll give.