It Always Rains North of Us
or South of us –
the cool hand of God
brushing the clouds aside
as they crest the western horizon.
Like contentment,
the periphery of happiness –
taught to us by children
and autostereograms.
Like the memory of a friend
touching you on the shoulder –
gone when you turn around,
leaving only a swell of warmth.
Like a new song
or an old one you thought you forgot,
or maybe one you always knew –
the words still being written.
And in the heavy gray dawn,
the ground saturated through,
a gilded light bleeds through the clouds,
more real than any light you've ever known.