Worship

I worship a God who resides in the splatter of raindrops.

He hits the ground in an insignificant splash,

trickles along the crevices of empty sidewalks.

He settles into etched-in-names of hard concrete.

 

I filled a needle with puddle water seeped into a heart

that was etched decades ago in wet cement.

I shot the rainfall into my veins,

just to feel him course through my blood.

 

And once, when I was young,

I stood outside in the rain for an hour.

Soaked, I asked God to wash away my sin

with the dust and dirt of his purified earth.

 

I worship a God who resides in the splatter of raindrops.

He hits the ground

         and is gone.