You Were of a Cloud by Marc Rahe

I listen to rain from a dry place.
Out of a gray sky rain sings

its loneliness. Nothing can make
the rain hear me. The rain is said

to pelt the glass. Over my pelt, I am
sweatered. I know from the street

warm-looking light is made
rectangle-shaped by my and my

neighbors’ windows.
Under the eaves is a rut worn

into the ground by years of rains
since before I began my renting.

I know rain is pouring down there
in a curtain. I can hear it.

It is cold and dirty. But, rain,
you are new. You were of a cloud,

then the wind took you every way
by your solitary drops. But a greater

force drew you the whole time.
You were of the sky then you arrived

from the sky to my home on the outside.
Now, even in that muddy hole do you

welcome the other rain coming after,
as though you weren’t yet a stranger.