The rains that show
the planes in the air
before they’re fielded by
The rains that exchange the traffic lights
for gems in a dangled stream bed.
The rains that weep in our hearts in French,
the rains that sweep multilingually
through towns, cities, burgs.
The rains that surge, the rains that
soften, the rains that waft
what floats, the rains that sink
the rains that batter roofs,
that do not behoove
The rains that loam tar,
the rains that just are,
even long after
The rains we cannot name
at first, the blip/drip upon our
the rains that propel us
through their pelt,
the silver-fur we shake,
The rains that wash,
the rains that wash away,
the rains gulped in gouts,
the rains that seep into
The grey rains we’ve heard of, we say
we will never forget,
the grey rains that burden us, whose remembrance
the rains that do not wash
The rains that do not come
though much prayed for, the rains
that will not stop, the rains that mists-defy–
The rains that are so very different from coins
showering, the rains we catch on our fingertips, but that slip
through our cupped hands, the rains that make flesh shine
if given the chance, dancing.
Very much a draft I-don’t-know-what for Real Toads Open Platform, hosted by Kerry O’Connor. Both pics are mine; as with the poem, all rights reserved.
This has been edited since first posting.
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