Waiting for rain.

He was told about rain before
he had langauge, so when language
came, as it does, without the
bigger picture,
he had no understanding
of what to expect.

I have waited with him for
sixty-one years.
"Is it like wearing clothes?" he asked. "They say
it's all over your skin if it's heavy."

My heart is heavy for him.
He waits for a story he wants and expects.
It will never come.

I've walked in rain, lots of showers, storms and
silly drizzles. Perplexed puddles, reflective ripples running on
pavements. Soaked, shivering, steaming.

Who doesn't know rain?
If you live in a desert, that's something else,
but he lives among us.

He waits, watching the sky, checking at least
each hour, even in dreams,
and speaks to me anxiously.

I'm not sure what advice to give.
I could suggest don't wait, anticipate.
Don't ask, receive.

But I sense he's gone through every part of
that.

I'm not sure about accompanying him
much longer.
It rains where I live, and when you realize that wisdom and
wetness aren't the same,
there isn't much you can do with words.
Still, he's a friend, and the longer he waits,
the more I sense the story
of what he wants.