it rained here last night

It rained here last night.

When I opened my eyes at precisely 7am, as if I'd set an alarm, that phrase opened up in my head. It's true and now it's echoing.

It's echoing like the beginning to different stories, to different poems, but I think I'll just start with the poem.

-----

It rained here last night,
and there is nothing wrong in
talking about the weather.

It changes so often and
we all go through it.
We should talk about what we have in common,
and sometimes that may be that
the sun is hot,
ice is slick,
and rain comes
whether you're expecting it or not.

I have heard some people say--
complain--
that weather talk is avoidance talk,
a way to protect ourselves from
discussing deep stuff
feelings
ambitions
hopes
plans.

And to them I say:
It rained here last night,
and I was sleeping in a tent.

In a tent, only a few millimeters of fabric separate you
from falling nature.

You're in this 4 x 6 bubble of dry isolation,
and the plip-plip of rain on the fly is the
only reminder you need that
no matter how important you think yourself,
you still live by the whims of weather.