Late Summer, Early Morning, After Rain 

Shrouded, the abbey and all things 

on that far hill—I know the crucifix 

on that domed structure dwarfed 

by the electrical tower. I went there once. I was hungry, saw 

robed men inside moving in circles, some boys 

sat in the corner, reading. On the path 

the river can be seen 

from various angles. A leaf on the bank 

lifts as the current rises, then 

a cluster. I observe the blue 

heron before me as it alights, repeatedly. In childhood 

I couldn’t bear the feeling of rain, rain and grass—

the many points of contact. Once I asked 

my mother about the qualities of God and after 

a brief pause she said, “God is in everything,” 

in the same way that she shrugs. 

I’d imagine a field of grass with little white 

Jesus faces on each blade and

it wasn’t enough—I don’t care much

now for music but today the rain desires 

to fall and it does—the noise 

it makes pleases. Sometimes 

I feel more like a doorknob or a chair than

a person. I mean, the life inside 

a doorknob—that’s the life I have 

inside me. Most of the time I mean  

about thirty percent of what I say. Okay, 

what I mean to say is that I can’t stop 

thinking about that night last fall 

when Marie came for dinner. 

There was rain. Elizabeth was dressing 

the greens at the kitchen counter.

We were setting the table when 

Mary said “I’m starving,” and Marie said 

“The rain, the earth, the world.” 

Then Mary said “What?” and Marie said 

“You said ‘I’m starving.’ I said 

‘The rain, the earth, the world.’” 

“Oh,” Mary said, handing me a glass 

of water. “I’m starving. 

The rain, the earth, the world,” 

Marie said again, quietly and to herself.