I’m jealous of rain,
for its tiniest diameter rings great beauty,
and though there’s an increase here
pounding against window drum,
I cannot compare.
My heart lives
like a knife
and the way it dices a tomato clear,
a redness so moist annexed by visible seeds.
I rather be inside those clouds,
obscure and full of luminous powers,
and renew existence on earth.
Maybe, just maybe then,
I could descend
upon every person who loved me
with insurmountable gentle worth.
© 2016 from Art Cure: un-alone in poetry by Mario Gabriel Adame