Day 629

You tell me you loved rainy weather
but now you can’t bear it.
When your house was destroyed
your whole family moved to a tent.  The tent
is flimsy, has a hole
in what should be the roof. Lets
the cold in.  Lets the rain in.
I am thinking about your infant,
how sometimes. when he’s sleeping,
the rain pours in and soaks him.
I am thinking of how it’s possible
to keep him warm and dry.  I think
of you, smiling at me
when I ask you that.  It’s not,
it’s not possible, you tell me,
there’s no way to keep him dry
when it’s raining on him; and warm?
I warm him with the warmth
of my body, but in the rain
my body is cold.  I think of you
now, how if we were together
I would lay my woolen shawl
over your shoulders, your
bony shoulders.  I would 
dress your infant son
in new dry clothing,
wrap his cold feet in a blanket,
rock him to sleep.  I would quench
the incessant buzz of drones,  
sweep smoke from the sky, clear the air
of the stench of death and poison.
I would hold my hand over the hole
in your tent, shield you, shelter you
at least from the rain.