That drips down raindrops on the milling crowd,
Turns calm white clouds into a whirling gray
(As if the summer's sky were disallowed),
Spills sodden seeds down onto city streets
That were not well-designed to take the load,
And when all this is done, simply repeats
Washing along all those who dared the road.
God does not dice with us; we are not players
But pieces moved around the board at need.
There is no hope for answer to our prayers:
Our wills are ours, but divine will is freed
To soak the city down at divine pleasure
Regardless of our hopeful plans for leisure.
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