Scott Russell Morris
Water fell down the eaves
in thick ribbons, cascading into dusty puddles
while I clutched you, just ten days old.
The rain chilled the air;
you warmed my chest
and contentedly muttered.
I hushed and shushed and rocked,
my eyes alternating between you and the rain,
the arrival of each a miracle, a relief.
We were as content as we might have been,
you and I, in the rain
I had waited for all winter.
This is life, I said,
then whispered you a warning:
This is not the whole world.
This is just one day.