It Must  Be Rain Drops

By Rudolph Lewis

Beneath a cotton tree, an altar

of enduring time, brown leaves crunch

This crackle of life he planted

many years ago—in my youth—

no moon now shines through its limbs

a hurricane loosened its roots —

fear sawed its power down to a stump

Sometimes he comes to me in my dreams

I forget he is no longer flesh & blood

but stretched out in the cold, wet ground

He never walked away from that bed

by the heater with the fullness of his life

Mama and Aunt Sal talked in the kitchen

when he began to pray his prayer

of suffering & loss to stop his hiccups

As a boy in my upstairs room the drama

of his words plucked my body like a guitar string

His midnight lament from his valley

of despair & defeat could not then be grasped

by my unknowing grace of innocence.

Out of the closet his prophetic madness

broke my unfettered sleep. I hated him.

His prayer called forth again to smooth

out troubles only his creator could resolve—

all came down that day were my tears

*   *   *   *   *

12 November 2003