Let me wake in the night
and hear it raining
and go back to sleep.
– Wendell Berry (“Prayers and Sayings of the Mad Farmer”)
The lullaby that soothes my brain,
a metal roof under rain, proof
of gods and goddesses on the job
while I rest completely—let night
take me unafraid anywhere it wants
until the glistening of puddled mornings
blind me with glimpses of paradise
upon this earth, wet and wanting
nothing more from rustic religions.
Every church should acoustically angle
its spires and ridgelines to accentuate
these heaven’s gifts—and to withstand
retribution’s thunderous roar while
renting and gnashing huddle beneath
the storms that flood the rivers muddy.
We are not the architects, nor the nomads
chasing rain from place to place with herds
anymore. We pray instead for basic
sustenance to run upon and off our roofs,
season after season—no two the same—
to wake in the night and hear it raining.