After the rain washes us down
the dust turns to mud in which I frolic until sunlight
begets a hazy rise of mist tinted emerald upon waves of warm air

ascension –
and I sense what I think to be God, blinding, euphoric,
the supreme celebrant of all good and alive

thoughts now crystalline, out of the vortex, the eddy
that once captured every moment to divert me from the actual,
the purveyor of the shifting real

in the rain I turn my face skyward, to drink in as much of the deluge
as I can, so engorged that I am washed clean in the purge
with eyes opened to the world, neither strange nor new

washed simply clean,
crisply floral and herbal

upright and human

Chagall 2020