The rain touches every tree, every living thing
has touched it, felt its matchless hand,
been immersed by such indifferent beauty,
skin-suffocated in these grains of water
that descend majestically from the still indifferent sky.
It yawns to greater works of man
as each of these may die, will die.

But most of all, enhanced by this,
the water-touch of silent sages,
is the glaze upon your rain-kissed face,
each fallen drop rests to make your eyes
two infinitely petaled flowers,
I think I might naively sacrifice my sight
for such a blessed power.

I've concluded that all I've spent cannot
refute this assertation central to my life:

I envy the rain.