Speak to me about the silvery rain

Don’t talk to me about all things “spiritual.”

I don’t know what the word means.

Put down the books. The candles.

The word journey.

Tell me instead what it’s like to sit by the fire.

Speak to me about the silvery rain,

how it lightens the dust on the porch;

what your feet have touched,

your hands caressed,

your eyes have missed.

Tell me what your heart longs for,

what aches or burns in you,

what this life has given and taken,

how many miracles you witnessed

before the day yawned.

Tell me how crazy life has been.

How well you slept last night.

How tightly you held your wailing child.

The music that let your hair loose,

the silences you wore like a scarf at your throat.

Tell me what was ordinary. Boring. Frightening.

What stopped you in the middle of a day.

Tell me what you felt and still have no language for.

What you know without ever being taught.

What stayed when everything else was gone.

What you carry without meaning to.

The things you would give anything to remember—

and everything

you’ll never forget.