Awash, aglow, anew

There is an angel assigned to every drop of rain

Perhaps in the descent there grows affection

A motherly spirit for that vulnerable little droplet

Why wouldn’t the angel ask permission to care for its charge

At least until it grows up a bit more?

Perhaps until the drop becomes an ocean or a fish

Or rooted deep in the bark of a tree

Or spun into intricately hollowed bones

Why wouldn’t that angel stay with the water all its life?

That is to say, forever?

And so the angels are flooding my body

And probably writing this on behalf of their little droplets

Sweet and tender words for these good raindrops

That have become my body and blood and family