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.