A relentless rain falls in puddles.
Hundreds of rivulets run happily
downhill gathering in noisy storm drains,
rushing home to the sea.
Daylight begins in creamy shade,
not yet white nor grey.
The sun awakes beyond the rain and perhaps
sees past promises of soothsayers
to keep our hope alive.
The mountain wears old lace and dingy wash.
Random percussions, slow to frenetic,
Give silence a break.
The wind breathes just enough
to tousle a pepper tree now and again.
It is a Brittany rain,
beyond the bay windows of a study hall,
moving in waves across a landscape
of rubbles and forgotten berms.
It soaks brave thistles, weeds, and gorse
stubbornly pushing out yellow buds.
Sheets of sweet Atlantic water splash
on teary glass and new concrete.
In the hushed rustle of paper and squeaky chairs,
the Spleens of Baudelaire begin to make sense.
There are no trees.
Twenty years after the war and acorns have yet to sprout.
It is a New York winter rain
keeping kids indoors with crayons and coloring books,
Legos and woodblocks,
while mama sews little blue pants from a maternity dress.
Tangles of black brambles and vines claw
at glistening trunks of wild dogwoods.
Rusty remnants of hydrangeas
bend and weep on the lane.
Rain seeps through old casement windows.
The little one, barefoot again,
stands on the armchair to draw lines
on fogged up panes with a finger.
She watches the fat shiny drops meander,
coughs again, and sits.
Mama winces at the sound of pain,
leaves her sewing, takes the child in her arms.
They both watch the rain create tiny rivers
and waterfalls down an abutting cliff.
Baby sinks into mama’s warm heartbeat.
Soft little curls the color of sunshine against her lips,
mama recalls coconut trees and rice paddies,
rolling tanks and tracer rounds
of another time, another place,
a faraway life that has lost all meaning.
A relentless rain falls
on a muffled world.
But a crazy bird sings close by
It’s a rrrain-yyyyy day!
Hee-hee-heeee! Plenty to eat when it stops.
So it is…
There might even be rainbows.