judith in the rain

it's sunday so i lay in bed
listen to this rain and think
about my mother Judith and
this rain is the kind i imagine
favored by flowers, substantail
not a drizzle and now i have this name
audible drops and i can say it
enough to fill a blossom's mouth
but not bow it's head i wonder
was my mother a big woman, or 
pelt it's petals too cruelly
perhaps she was a frial girl
this one true thing and rain
forms in mists higher then birds
witness or ponder and my alleged father
was a minor like me, a sprout of grass
could wait, say 43 minutes in this rain
for that one drop to strike but i do not
hear the sea in shells nor names woven
through all the small and falling globes
that may find some wee blade to cling to
in dewish embrace and i wonder if judith 
liked the flowers or the rain and how for 
43 years i waiting for one drop of truth
to fall into the desert of my thirst