The first rain came
with the green smell
of leaves opening,
dust loosening its mouth,
the roof remembering
how to sing.
Children stood still
under the eaves.
Even the road
seemed grateful.
Then the field began
to give back red.
Not sunset.
Not clay.
Blood, thinned
by heaven,
entered the roots
without knowing
what it was.
Who can answer
for the dead
when even rain
touches them
and keeps falling?
We went out after.
We pressed seeds
into the dark
with our bare thumbs.
They will rise.
Not clean.
Not forgiven.
But risen.