rain

I tilt my head against the doorjamb,

arms wrapped around my knees:

it, finally, rains.

everything is a staccato, an ecossaise,

thunder is only a suggestion, but it lurks.

the sky hangs colorless, white, blank.

the sky waits for color, and I stare at it, and I wait

and I see insinuations of sunsets, sunrises: I sleep.

angel trumpets next door shudder, deadly, gorgeous,

inviting a suck on their nectar.

everything is a staccato, or a static,

or the mathematics of waves, the calculus in trees,

the mandalas slip-sliding on my window.

but there is no peaceful algebra,

only me, the variable, the puzzle piece.

I don't play piano anymore but I can pick out the staccatos,

I can almost pick out the math, the rhythm --

the melodies --

the way my hands stall on the keys, I should --

I should translate the rhythm of the rain.

the allure of the angel trumpets; I turn away, to the bay, to the grey,

the water, the houses, the trees shifting in the wind, of life --

I see the hints, the insinuations, of the sunsets and shadows,

and the sunrises, the rain, the rhythms,

of life.