Childhood Rain

Cold and wet.
A musty smell,
fresh and clean,
washing the air,
filled my nostrils
then my senses.

Forehead bangs,
clumped together,
brought together,
by the deluge
upon my head,
gathering the water,
winding rivers
across my eyes.

I watched,
looked down upon
the hill of mud,
through my flooded view
pools and streams
cascading to nowhere,
bringing with them twigs,
ants and things.

Ecstasy ensued.
My soaked left index finger
delved deep in the mud,
carving its own channel,
immediately bringing forth,
the obedient stream.

Delicately, I sculpted the earth.
My whim, my proxy,
the stream became a river.

My power, my glory,
I was God.
Time stood still
as the rain
washed my soul,
I was part.
I was whole.