Stone stairways smothered in moss fall from his fingertips on drops of ice water,

coagulating at his feet and reflecting the events of the day on his skin.

He is calm, the rain travelling in streaks across his forearms,

dripping off the tip of his nose,

creating dandelion-shaped stains in the front of his T-Shirt.

The sky is laid out as a sheet of liquid ash,

the evidence of the storm having parted

like the bead of an over-ripe blackberry;

leaves cover the trail behind him,

bending into pointed curves:

shiny emerald,

nature’s plastic.

The soles of his converse puncture the wet earth,

leaving shallow marks,

lines, circles, stars,

and a design that looks like a frowning face,

as if it’s in pain

every time he steps on it.

But he keeps walking,

paddling through the air with his flattened palms,

his body gliding over tiny streams

and bloodied worms --

his journey to nowhere in particular,

maybe to a friend’s house,

maybe home.

Only his window holds the peace that rain brings,

pounding on the glass,

indifferent fists,

existing solely to remind him of their presence,

drifting into the ink of his subdued subconscious,

allowing him to sink away from doubt.