Poem: A History of Rain

History of Rain

 

the sky is dying

in ditches and puddles,

leavening the streets

with emotions recycled from our crimes.

drainpipes moan like didgeridoos,

vibrating with the same water

that fell on mammoths, stegosaurs,

and before that, the howl

of youthful volcanoes.

 

when water first fell

it played phoenix without fire,

a rainforest of phoenixes every day--

then came the humans and their faces

and the collisions with tears.

 

there’s been no escape, since then,

from the happy-sad, stressed, vain cheeks,

and the gutters below their fitful melodramas.

torrents have become histrionic.

storms a soap opera rife with gods.

rain rages, wails or chortles now.

no innocent praise,

no rising up with the dignity of fresh angels.  

no celebration

in the vibrato of puddles anymore,

only little theaters-in-the-round,

microcosms of the lonely.

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