They arrive
not with the swiftness
of storms
or the perthlunk-ity
of hail
or the gusto
of the cyclone,
but with hearts
fearing nothing
impressing no one
attuned to their destination
and diving headlong
into their purpose.

Their words
are whispers
and clicks
and taps
and drips,
and much pitter patter
but nothing’s the matter.

They boast
by cascading
and singing in harmony
the tune of their own crashing.

The violent raindrops
move the earth,
wreck the beauty,
drown the living.
They take
and take
and take.

But the Gentler Ones
are the generous sort
sharing, nourishing,
washing, caring,
brushing aside
the soot and sin.

I wonder if the gentler ones know
of the gratitude
of all the living things?
Or if they, like we,
wonder if it matters
whether or not
they rise or fall at all.

Keep falling,
and dripping,
and awakening
the dry and dusty soil,
oh Gentler Ones.

Keep making
just the right
difference.

Most of us, we like to think
we've nailed life down
and mapped its rhythms
and still we call it,
a roller coaster.

Most of us, though,
aren't feeling the thrills
or the violent hills
but rather just a train,
just on tracks.

And yet still the ride
can be so
wild.