The Pup Tent

I played in the rain

with the puppies.

It was more like

I relaxed in the rain

with the puppies.

They’d crawled into

my lap as I was reading

in my beach lounger.

They fell asleep on me.

I had fifty pounds

of pure puppy

on my chest.

They were so content.

Izzy was snoring.

Kerouac had his muzzle

against my neck.

It was no downpour.

It was drizzling at best.

Above, restless, smoky clouds

were playing bumper cars.

They were mixing, mingling, breaking

apart and coming back together

to form rain clouds,

and we were below

in control of nothing

but our desire to be

there, under them.

I was reading in the rain,

and I should’ve taken myself

and the pups inside.

I have enough sense

to get in out of the rain.

But they were resting so

sweetly upon

my chest and legs

that I did not want

to disturb their sleep,

so we remained

in the drizzle, and

nearby was a beach towel.

I grabbed it.

I covered us up.

I made a pup tent.

We were under it,

and I was quite content.

 

After thirty minutes

of sitting under the

pup tent, we went

inside. I was no longer a child.

And this may be what’s

wrong with me.

I’ve grown old and grumpy.

Gray hair is sprouting.

I’m drying up, so a little

rain can’t hurt me.

Maybe I should sit

in the rain more often.

I need my soul soaked too.

Like Peter, “Not only

my feet, Lord. But wash

all of me.”

The psalmist wanted

soul-thirst, like the deer

that panteth for the water,

so my soul longeth

after Thee.

Jesus offers the

living water, the

eternal drink, the

well that never runneth dry.

Can you run into the desert

and keep running

until it is too late

to notice that you have

no camel,

no humps,

to get you to an oasis?

Am I in the desert

right now?