It rains. Not gentle laugh-lines like a chuckle from the sky
But earnest, pelting staccato against the willow-sigh
Where mini-runnels race and chase in senseless rivalry
Their predecessors, rushing like great rivers to a sea
It rains, and home is sweeter in the splashing serenade
And dashing doggerel of silver-slipping promenade
Where daydreams wink in sudden reborn possibility
As summer’s great outdoors implores with rain-ripe urgency
It rains. A strange, sweet sorrow tugs and hugs fond
memories
And gardens bow beneath the weight of heaven’s sweeping seas
Where little, stippled lakes dapple the driveway. God unchains
A troupe of lilting legions to parched avenues. It rains
© Janet Martin
