Because of the rain, the meadow is empty. How quickly the train vanishes this view. I press my ear to blank paper, hoping to hear you, waiting for a break in the rain. My mother counseled me to pray Mary Mother of Jesus, please be a mother to me now. I rouse the childlike versions of my inner selves, who cling to certain hope. O, delay! How difficult, to wait. I tromp through rain, sullying my good shoes in the meadow to get close to you. Like God, all beauty is proxy for your beloved face.