I wrote this maybe 20 years ago and it was published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature in April, 1993.
Zen and the Art of Rainfall 1. Out last night, couple of beers with her friends. Yes, her: that one, the one, gone now. Pale sweet ghost, thin blade of lip, profusion of mahogany curl. 2. Next day won't stop raining. Second story view through dirty kitchen window, storm screen, and mist like a restless cat nosing after a dry place to settle. Charcoal afternoon, curves of musk and hunter green, vague around its ashen edge. 3. All memory is revisionism. 4. I'd like to come back as water, he said, and brushed a hint of rose into her cheek. Though weather divide me into my smaller selves, pitch me to the whim of windage, break me on stone and barren field, the book of my days will be reunion – furrow, storm drain and river ever joining, ever the deeping sea. Yes, he said, taken by the coalescence of her gaze, next time I'll be circle of rain. 5. Across the road from where I grew up, into the dense wood then down, maybe a hundred yards down, a fledgling creek slow clear gouge through fernblack bottom. Things lived there. If you were still, sometimes you could hear them.