Made of glass, the rain gauge
Has no numbers or markings—
Long since worn away.
One must measure by instinct
Or memory of the rule.
An inch? Two? Does it matter?
Perhaps enough to know
It has rained.
And the water collects
Itself—
Held, fulfilled.
Is faith like that?
In what vessel does it rest—
Its value beyond compare or counting.
To be assessed by that same inchoate
Sense—
The inarticulate inch,
The unspoken belief,
The untold hope.
Louise Coffin, a former high school English teacher in Atlanta, revels in her Swarthmore retirement.