Lament for Rain

The rains have gone for the year
and I miss them. Maybe
I need a dripping fountain
to calm my mind, block out
the white noise of the highway.
But Zen says the pencil is the pencil,
the stone is the stone.
The dripping fountain then
is a dripping fountain–cheap metal
and a motor. It is not the rain.
Once, years ago, in Manhattan,
I heard a mother tell her young son
that the worms show up when it rains
because they want to swim
in the puddles. This is cruel–
to deny the truth
in order to tell a story.
And it is all we have.