Mother and the Rain

She 

patters against stretched 

belly skin,

knows me from womb’s

warmth, and I know her.

She

meets me in dawn flower

beds, precariously weighing

down the tip of a lily. We sprawl

in afternoon almond grass, post-

drizzle, bathing in the pink 

sweetness of the sun.

Her face lives in the grooves of the midnight 

moon, who drapes her lacy silver 

milk over treetops, glimmering

gently of liquid pearl. 

I follow her

through cool spring mornings where

two silver-furred squirrels, 

wet with dew, soft as winter 

snow, chase each other up a trunk in 

dizzying spirals,

all the way to the bed of the 

ancients, where I will drink a clear 

cup of lily jewels, moon’s milk 

wrinkled with creation, 

to the one who makes and 

made every season 

more 
beautiful.

by HALEY CREIGHTON