I go to work in the same shoes I wore then, the waterstains haven't faded.
The smell of rain on the dirt of my soles, my soul with the colors of rain and soil.

If I cry, will you still smell the rain?

The rain falls without promise of end.
I feel the sound of past lives in the deluge.
Their footsteps fall against the window pane.

Outside the olive greens
Daunt me the subdued colors
the hues of haunting places.
But the ghost are inside the rainfall.

I pray to the God that sent the rain
purify me with your waters.
Send the light from a million stars
to warm my heart.

But the tears fall like the rain
down my cheeks.
leaving water stains
Like on a damaged photograph.

When I wake up
the house is singing an aria.
The heirloom waterstains bloom
with each crescendo.

At the closing of a door,
my families roots are pushing
through floorboards. Marshlands
fill the empty highway.

You stand in corners, faceless girl
on your arm. Your name rolls around
her mouth like a cat's eye.

My friends are on the roof,
sipping champagne from open palms.

In the earthquake
I only can save myself.
I look for safety
in a school desk.

Then the world is rivers
of orange-creamicle fabric,
prayer mandalas turning
in song, in song, in song.