nothing for sure

the steady cascade of rain
from a faucet left on by
an absent-minded God
rather than the worn gray blanket of clouds

slowly fading the weathered
gray fence to a deep rich burgundy
i could have told you
it would happen

just as when i see the once wind-lodged branch
lifeless - an amputated limb - broken
and know its future will take it
to the brush pile beside the retired shed

As sure as each kernel of corn
will be delivered from the cob
to our year-round resident
squirrel's cheek

The rain's predictability mocks my ability
to know so much...spending my days
searching for answers
except for knowing my future

perhaps the fence, the corn, maybe even the squirrel,
but especially the rain
look at me knowing only one thing for sure
what will become of me