They Called for Rain
June 8 2009


They called for rain.

But this cool mist is like walking on mountain-tops,
the hard-edged world softened
enclosed in fog.

Then there is all-day-rain,
relentless, soggy.

And showers, on-and-off;
hope dangled, then snatched away.
A rent in the cloud,
a ray of sun, slanting down.

In late summer, it pours,
heavy drops
like water, shot from nail-guns.
These are monsoons, biblical floods,
so the world overflows
nearly drowning us.

I prefer the sturm und drang
of thunder
— the wind, whipped-up,
the clouds
black towering anvils.
How the air feels charged,
the sense of power, barely contained,
and the light
ominous, exhilarating.
And when it breaks
there may be hail
frogs
horizontal rain.
In the end, the earth left cleansed
and glistening —
torn branches scattered,
wet leaves, splattered
on cars, asphalt, glass.

This cool mist
is like kissing your sister.
A thunderstorm is elevator-sex in a black-out —
you and your lover air-locked,
in the very last kiss
on earth.