Should There Ever Come A Day

by Calla Mueller

Will there ever come a day
when rain begins to fall, 
but I care nothing for the window’s view
and feel no stir or distant call? 

When I will think of rain and see
only a wasted day, 
a gloomy room, a humid air,
a nothing cast in grey? 

When the only things I wish to do
are close the windows fast, 
smile because the garden’s watered,
and ignore it until it’s passed?

Will there ever come a day
when I think nothing of the sky?
When a grand cloud or rainbow glimpse
does nothing to capture my eye?

When running out in bare feet
to splash through puddles glossed,
is nothing more than a childish dream,
a whim of fantasy long-lost? 

When the sounds of storm-drains were waterfalls
and every puddle a sea, 
when imagination was not just a game
but its own reality?

Will there ever come a day
when I will think I am older and wise, 
but see rain as nothing but water
and value ceilings over skies? 

I worry there will come a day
when rain begins to fall
and I will neither feel the wind’s beckon
or the storm cloud’s luring call.