All Things Great and Self-Reliant
At the center
of the pedestrian bridge
I pause my smartwatch
to take in the view,
Autumn’s desperate fists
clinging to the last few not-bare trees,
the smatterings of stubborn early frost,
the stilled, sepia silence of it all,
and then the Heavens open up,
the river’s surface springing to life,
droplet patters bouncing off of slate, of concrete.
I stand alone, witnessing this shower -
its swell, its sudden ending - and
find myself thinking of wedding planning,
how our officiant, in our first meeting,
asked “Are you religious?”
How I must have spat my “no” at him,
so young and proud of my denial
of the mass hysteria of idol worship,
my refusal to kneel, subservient,
before a hypocritical false prophet
and drone out hymns of peace and brotherhood
from a book dripping with blood.
“No,” and he countered with a question:
“Do you believe in anything, at all,
larger than yourself?”
I hear that question again
in the damp hush of the valley
as the water stills to mud-green glass.
Birds burst from the bank,
beating wings against the water,
diving under, under, bowing heads.
All of this, I think -
the ducks, the trees,
Autumn’s thin and clinging fingers,
Winter’s premature hello,
and, most of all, the rain -
all of this is larger.
It exists for reasons so much greater,
ancient and unknowable,
than me and my enjoyment.
It just happened, that I ran
into the middle of it all
this dim November afternoon.
Perhaps that question should be asked
of priests, of devotees, church-goers.
When you get caught in the rain,
do you believe it falls for you?
A gift, perhaps, that He took time
to send down just for you?
Or his way of making you humble
with wet and soggy clothes,
challenging you to survive a storm?
Is it a message for you
from your grandpa, up in Heaven?
If everything happens for a reason
and you, you are that reason,
then do you picture your own face
when you look skyward?
Do you hear your own voice answer
when you pray?
I believe in rainfall,
in the ripples that bring fish
closer to the surface
so that birds can feed.
I believe in yellow leaves
dropping silently from branches,
letting go
without anyone to witness
their descent into the ground.
I believe Winter doesn’t need a god
to create its perfect crystals:
snowflakes start as simple dust.
I believe we are so lucky
to know the touch of rain’s cool fingers
on our fragile, upturned faces,
to find ourselves alive in beauty
so much larger than us all.
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