Forward to our Birth

Outside our window
the tiny spring flowers
turn up to the gray skies
and gently falling rain.
The swelling buds,
the long green leaves
hold the spherical drops,
transparent, glistening,
slowly drinking in the moisture,
one with the rain.

Our building sheds the water
onto slick asphalt
toward steel grates and iron pipe.
We force the rain to pass,
studying ways to make
our lives impervious.
"Good sense" say the able leaders
who've developed a sheen
similar to the buildings,
aloof from the forces of descent,
refusing entry to the rain.

We stand apart, or think we do,
unlike the tiny spring flowers
and the tall swaying firs,
rejecting the moisture,
the eternally flowing water
that would slowly soak us
into remembering the root
of our humble and mysterious lives,
and guide us like salmon
back to our origin,
forward to our birth.