The Rain, That Drummer
The rain, that drummer, I tried to hear between the taps. The sound of the rain needs no translation, a talk said once quoting a monk long passed.
Did I have any way to see between the drops, as I tipped back. Coming down in lines I could only picture them after they’d passed.
Our boy has a firetruck, by the nape, beneath an awning, making the siren.
I was told a myth of a warrior who could run through the rain without getting wet. At night he could hide from the shadows. My hands churning, my hips swaying as I took this in by a fire in the Amazon, the crowns making lattice in the smoke and night.
Our boy ran the firetruck into the rain, and back again.
The rain, that drummer, gave a satisfied smile as we jogged and I tripped and caught myself on a bench, tumbling into the reeds. I looked up: the grin.
Do not trust anything that can’t get a little wet.
Our girl touched the green shoots. Gentle, I said.
In a garden it is not intuitive what should live and die.
An owl warns the rain she will fly through. The lines breaking on her wings. Trees == a slow motion geyser, dead leaves refilling at the roots.
The firetruck, a front loader in each hand.
When I prune the apple trees I make diagonal cuts so the water has no place to rest.