Here I Am, Lord

The ribbed black of the umbrella   

is an argument for the existence of God,   

that little shelter   

we carry with us   

and may forget   

beside a chair   

in a committee meeting   

we did not especially want to attend.   

What a beautiful word, umbrella.   

A shade to be opened.   

Like a bat’s wing, scalloped.   

It shivers.   

A drum head   

beaten by the silver sticks   

of rain   

and I do not have mine   

and so the rain showers me.