I am not a body. I am the rain, 
falling all over your house and 
in the deep fold of the distant hills. 
I cover the leaf, the roof, the field grasses 
and the shiny street. A billowing wind 
carries me through the swirling branches 
and drives me against your window. 
I strike and coalesce, fall and spill 
into the soil and the swallowing gutter, 
taking a wild ride to the sea. 
Later the sun may draw me up, 
but the clouds will lose me when 
they let down their burden in water 
again. I am not a body. You can 
sleep to the sound of my falling.