Water Line

Raindrops connect us to the clouds,

sometimes in whisper, sometimes

in a bullhorn from the balcony,

getting wet is getting the message.

Like love, at the border of a family,

there's always never enough to go around

unless we stand in it, faces up,

hands outstretched like pails and a chalice.

It's up there, what we need down here.

Balloons, kites, and prayers know this;

the falling down, the coming to terms,

is the simple miracle of our blue planet.

Wet back, dry throat,

the clouds migrate across oceans of sand.

A cup of water to the least of these

is grace breaking open the damned.

Shingling

Set the roof right before rain,

simple plan, booted crew high as trees,

shovels toss the old tar paper,

hammers tack the dry hope in place.

Intelligence prepares,

noon sun bolts through the gathering clouds,

a green circle of thermos rests at an impossible angle

to the ground.

A length of ladder equals someone's prayer,

we reach for heaven sensing safety

is just above our sight line.

It starts from the ground up,

this work of walking tall,

where it ends, depends

on the hours we put in,

climbing.