Ben Wilson, LPC

I wake to rain in October, water upon panes.

Autumn comes quietly to wed the countryside. The maples all down the lane blush and silently disrobe. I make beds, smooth out sheets.

In the kitchen, I light a candle and the wick bows, a willing flame. A fire flickers in the hearth, slow warmth in slow time for a slow rain.

On the rim of the world, edge of a cornfield gilded, I listen to rain fall shy on the roof, on the corn's rustling leaves, leaves of the dead still standing. Dead leaves of cornstalks, thousands, touch, like bows across strings, making music like water. Like running water. Fields make music with sky, with that sea come looking for dry land, and rivulets course quiet down glass. Gray clouds track low, head east. I lay breakfast bowls out on the table.

Soon these children, that fine man, will come in hungry from the barn. Silver spoons, stainless steel cups, enamelware pitcher of milk, farm honey. I stand for a moment by the table, looking out a wet window to the south. One comes now, a son with his hood pulled up against early morning rain. I watch him, love of ours, meandering up the back walk. His head is bent low, feet finding all the puddles. He's splashing through ancient water, water from the beginning that has cycled through all centuries, puddle-jumped by a thousand young boys through the ages and I wonder if the water Adam knew falls here.

The clothesline strings across the back walk. Droplets reel out, a jeweled necklaced, framing now. From one forgotten clothespin hangs a singular raindrop. And I see: the clothesline is the beam, the wooden clothespin an upright post. I see a cross in the clothespin. Son looks up, sees me at the window, and he waves, all a smile.

The droplet falls from the cross clothespin, grace upon us.

And for a moment, longer, long, I blaze.

This child, this time, this day, we are all here, grace, all grace, and this fountain of Great Grace falls all around and it could flow through us and on into the world, and with borrowed breath I am fueled, a torch in October rains.

~Ann Voskamp~