rainy day

Water only sits in the white chairs
on the back porch
because the clouds kiss the armrests
with their wispy bodies all caked together
instead of a summer sunbeam
or a singular butterfly,
I wonder what it must have been like
to travel in giant flocks,
all those monarchs following magnetic pull
or some navigation
so few of us want anymore.

The Thing About Rain

The thing about rain is that
it continues dripping for an
unknown amount of time.

Or how perfect it sounds in a pond,
tiny silver trinkets and bubbles
rippling the tree limbs’ mirrors;

I thought the birds would never answer
a gray rainy scenery, but their wing
feathers purr along in the downfall.

So, be like the rain.
And rain in May as you must,
and rain until the sun feels warm again.

But the thing about rain is that
it stops. And not when, but
why: the rain gladly finds a treasure.

remaining spaces

A different ripple falls into my lap;
it is the sound of pins dropping.
Tap my shoulders and fallen hood;
my spine is lax, my eyes are weak.
soft, soft, soft, soft, soft, Soft.
The rain is unafraid,
it fills in the remaining spaces of my forehead.

whisper

Everyone knows
the pattern of rain
dropping on the ground
but
have you heard
the sound of raining
on wet leaves?
…
When the red brick walkway
is plastered with
banks of yellow leaves
under half-naked trees
and misty breaths

The sound like
a drip in a porcelain sink
slow spatters of paint
landing precisely random
on a beautiful canvas;
the fresh slap of morning
for someone already awake.

11/17/14

To the Cinnamon in the bottom of the Glass Jar

You have balled up underneath the weight
of warm warm tea, and that makes me smile;
Your nonsense matches people’s faces
walking in today’s rain;
But the pins and release of rainfall
look like crowns rather than brown tea ponds,
pretending to clump, to separate
easily as you do

storm

What is it in the warm dark
that the wind must flag me down?
Dripping at the branchless mark
skittish limbs drag on wet ground
all because your voice was hot
my ears ring with shadow sounds,
meshing, they refuse to rot,
the water’s too clear to drown;
‘Til now I have never seen
the sky like grit or as brown
for plastered leaves could not preen
the sky apart from its noun.

falling

falling
falling
like the rain
back to them
into myself
hair in my face
in my mouth
whistles by my ears
wet by rain
and I fall
down
down
where
nobody will find me
in the perplexity
of my mind
alone
and trapped
descend
as
free
as
myself