GOOD LUCK

I’ve never heard the sound of rain
on a tin roof until now. Outside
nothing gets wet,
as if each drop, when it meets
the earth, shoots down into the ground
and then never existed. It is trying to tell us
something, maybe no one’s listening.

I remember on a cold, dark night—somewhere else
in the world—I was going
to forget you. That bend in the road
wasn’t far in the distance, it was right outside the door.
And the cord doesn’t reach
into the forest.

Even morning prayers
don’t tell us much, but maybe it’s because
they’re trying to find their way
up through the rain
that doesn’t appear to be falling
but we can hear on the tin roof.

(4 March 2007)