Sweeping the Rain

There were no armoires there anymore,
no libraries of dust competing with 
the weave of cotton; no scroll-
backed chairs resting like guests 
at a garden party organized for you 
years ago, to which no child 
had been invited. Water moved 
through the pipes like an unmarried 
aunt taking her time, sweeping 
the rain with a broom fashioned from 
a handful of sticks; every excess
dumped from the heavens must be 
carefully tended. When the sky
filled with sand, it was 
the volcano waking up, finally
able to sing the song stuck 
in its throat for decades. This
is how you know the dead 
still love you. They have not
forgotten. They will take you back.