The first poem of the New Year about Rain.

The 2010 Rain ; A memoir



Three hundred splashes an hour on the same vintage leaves
where the Thai Buddha in the back yard has no tears on his face
the sodden ground and the spiny grass like the compost bin are soaking
the icy drops rhythm through the branches
tugging at the waxy boxwood hedges, sticking out like rabbits ears
in the morning rain
hangars of gray birds in sparsely leaved trees cloche the limbs with the the last of Autumn's petals to the seeping earth below
I can hear the breath of lucid angels shining faceless in the puddles
drowning words into the rock walls with concrete microphones
in lower voices, they stand closer together in drops of very white sky
plain spokes of winter wheels tend to want the placard post; fixed in an upright direction when the spidersilk falls to the ground
our hearts ferry in the January morning as beads on the streetlamp bones
the ornaments of finer mist drainpipe love letter drops to the glossing streets, on wet shoulders and lighter steps
we are tiny leaf boats flashing our metallic tongues in the gutters the open sky fortunes fold our bodies like rice candy paper wishes in Cocteau's sketchbooks
we are consecrated once more into the audiovox of God