The Penitent

Shrouded with hood,
I walk with head bowed,
pacing slow and solemn,
like a medieval penitent,
in nylon blue rain gear,
contemplating my footsteps,
my heartbeats,
the meter of my thoughts,
and the syncopated drumming
of raindrops upon my crown.

The gentle, sleepy rain,
not quite awake enough
to fall with purpose,
a sprinkle here and there,
it drifts in and out
of conversation with me.
What message is the rain
tapping out to me?

Entwining rhythms
of footsteps, heartbeats,
thoughts, and raindrops,
plus my unmeasured breath,
and countless other subcutaneous
and subterranean rhythms,
what aggregated morse code
am I tapping out to the universe?
An SOS? I Surrender?
Stay clear – under quarantine?
What message do I wish to emanate?
How do I change my rhythms
to send that signal?