The Rain Falls Down

Rain falls in gossamer threads of water,

silky strands that will later braid

into streams, creeks, and rivers, flowing, flowing,

always seeking the lowest point.

I watch through my bathroom window,

skipping stones in my bath,

a cone of white sage smoldering on the ledge,

Rocks, raw and tumbled,

congregate in covens around my garden

tub of water salted and oiled:

Epsom and helichrysum, cedar and pomegranate.

I place an amethyst on my tongue,

breathe the fragrant smoke and steam, recline until my head is half-

submerged, cobalt sand slipping down to the bottom of the circle,

condensation inside my window,

precipitation outside, streaking the air,

softening the distance between me

and who I used to be.