In the Birth of Rain poem by Michael W. Eliseuson

We are born to give ourselves to flowers,
Stones, and grass,
It was born and ran on into earth,
Where it pooled and bubbled,
Then made its grand ascent to the green fringes,
Where it fell into the broad round sounds,
Of forever flowing water;

By river and by lake it flowed on under,
The shadows of clouds,
In any wind or weather, it kept on,
Could not be stayed by any dam,
Ignored all bridges and minded most,
The bottoms and the shores…
It found its own passions
In the roots of water-logged trees,
Side-winding sandbars, and long ago drowned boats.
It never sought to seek itself,
Cared not for history or future,
Only the relentlessly passing present,
With its numberless passing dreams;

It did not try to find any modern rhythms,
Nor did it give any applause to those ancient rhymes,
Still carrying It on Its way…
It had no thought of special oceans,
Just the primal urges for going on its way;

It traveled just as well by starlight,
Nor did it moor itself to any dawn,
It never gaped a sinking sun,
Nor paused to hear the explosions of ourselves.