The Song of the Soul

If you told me how the rain
falls inside itself,
a flock of odyssey
as it rides the wind,
I would say the rain is alive
like strings of a harp strummed together,
echoes,
delicate as a chorus,
striking the anvil of a window,
trembling the leaves,
the roar of surf,
joined in the speaking of the rain,
and modulated in the voice
of a soul,
that lives in the indices of the world,
silent,
until the rain comes and lets it sing.