Was wetted by a different kind of rain
when I turned twenty three;
though wind driven sideways angle to it,
it fell straight down on me.
Soaked as I was, I soon realized
eight thousand sunrises had shone on me.
Before that year the facts are murky.
Forgotten or been struck blind
by tables topped with fresh poured drinks;
fear of what I might find.
Fear that what I think I have now
is the same as what I left behind.
Empowered now, too late, with bifocal logic,
that sees right through sunshine or cloudpain,
I am no longer impressed by weather’s mood,
do not respect it as I should.
Each past day gets twice replayed again,
just with a different kind of rain.
I thought with time I would not drink alone,
I thought I would not somehow fail to see.
Forgot to wind the proper clock and now
fifty thousand suns have shone on me.