Colors in the Rain

I saw him dancing in the storm,
the old monk, barefoot in the mud,
spinning like the sky had whispered
that the rain was made for joy.

He wore no robes of caution,
no prayers heavy on his tongue,
just laughter in his body’s sway
and freedom in his lungs.

We watched, my wife and I,
from under the temple eaves,
our hands entwined like roots
that had survived too many seasons.

We had known how it felt
to shrink ourselves
in rooms that taught silence
instead of song.

But the monk spun on,
as if every drop
was a note in a hymn
only the heart could hear.

And then—
a rainbow, bold and brief,
arching not above him,
but through him,
as if even the sky
could not help
but bend toward light.

That day, I learned this:
Joy is not a sin.
It is a vow.
A rebellion.
A return.

And when the storm calls,
I, too, will dance.

© Susie Stiles-Wolf