Rain, again, still, perhaps forever.

I'm too old and too melancholy to appreciate it, and think of Rilke:

"I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough

to make every minute holy."       

This is how the water rises into the third day

Of rain, the still and shallow pool halfway up

The hill filling and overflowing and falling to

The stream that is usually a trickle and now

A torrent, no longer only what we can see of

The tentative spring hidden beneath the hill  

But the imperative of rain and its revelation,

The rush and plunge of water not inclined

To deeper but to wider, loosening the rocks

And roots and reeds of the banks, each

Resolving into its separateness again, once

Common ground holding me and the stream

Giving way, slipping away to settle again

Somewhere farther on now than I can go.