FIRST RAIN OF THE SEASON
thrummed a small staccato
on the tin roof as if like rain,
followed by an unseasonable cloudburst
that pummeled the earth with small fists.
During the first splutter, I ran outside,
the sky was a gaudy sailor’s delight.
A drop smacked me on the forehead,
an anointment, my third eye opening,
pushing me back like a baptism.
The acrid odor of stone slaking its thirst.
A chorus of thunder, lightning dresses the night
in off-shoulder sequined gowns. And so it begins.
The waiting. Thunder on the right.
At least a mile off. Count 1001, 1002, 1003...
On the eve of last year‘s firestorm,
the waiting begins. And the night is long.
9/9/21
No comments:
Post a Comment