Even Here

Even here
slick Sunday showers
paint the pavement silver,
without discrimination,
blessing the weeds
plastic bottles
misshapen trees
with fragrant brushstrokes,
misty relief
from summer’s heat.

Even here
storm clouds stretch the sky
offering shade, benevolently,
without care for the unkempt status
of the field below,
twisted from the storm’s abuse,
her scars of cracked mud
bandaged,
offered drink.

Even here
butterflies sway,
content to be unseen,
away from every accolade
but just as buoyant
above the soft sheet music
of droplets embracing grass,
descending reeds.

Even here
the Earth rejoices.

And where are you
if not also in hiding?
And which disheveled part of self
is not equally
worthy of rain?