I love the sound of rain first thing in the morning, when I can hear it hitting the roof outside my window, and I can feel the subtle hint of moisture on the breeze, but can't yet see it as the sun still swims its way through the Atlantic and has yet to peek over the horizon. It's on these mornings, the certifiably rare mornings when I am up at 4:40 in the morning, trying to put some words into a more coherent rhythm than the barrage of raindrops outside, when I hope the deluge of creativity will flow just as easily as the gathering rain. It is a new day ahead, when the sun will dry up what falls in the darkness, and the earth will use what it needs to quench its endless thirst, so that it will keep on spinning, and this chance will ever come again.
I write the world
I write the world letters
I write the world poems
I write the world sonnets and essays and moans
I write the world songs
I write the world scenes
I write the world through books and emails and zines
I write the world happy
I write the world sad
I write the world temperatures between good and bad
I write the world coming
I write the world gone
I write the world of the Kingdom Come
I write the world truth
I write the world lies
I write the world bargains, pleas, alibis
I write the world sober
I write the world stoned
I write the world guilty and oh so alone
I write the world hopeful
I write the world glum
I write the world decoratively and deliciously dumb
I write the world for you
I write it for me
for the path
that leads
to We
Contributed by Steve McAllister
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