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When the Rains Come
If it rains, we hide
Like the sparrows we are.
Flitting from barn to barn,
Hay bale to empty street lamp,
Looking for a life less cold.
Who's to say there is more
Than this? The hawk resting, eyes open
Collecting the tears of the world?
Is there more in her vulnerability?
Does the sun preen her vest
As she clasps desperately to spiny firs
Which do little to shade her desire?
And do we not see through the hail
Into the empty spaces that caress her crown,
Smoothing out her sores?
What have we done in our company with men
To beat out such questions?
Are we not sorry?
