It is wet and rancorous

and my new leather shoes would feel the worst of it long before I got to class.

I stopped, before exiting, to appreciate the mighty storm – and open my umbrella.

 

And we passed each other, as we often do early in the morning

without smiling

without saying ‘hello’

no recognition.

We are strangers, but I cannot say positively

Whether or not she or I do this to ourselves on purpose.

I'm reading too far.

 

The world changes in the rain, and my grin

honest and proud, displayed itself for the exciting, alien, novel weather.

Down it goes with its chill and hail; my umbrella became

a shield against a happenstance and unconscious enemy.

 

But not a real enemy, no! The lifeblood of the springtime

the resurrection of green life everywhere

the envelope of the invitation, sent

to all our native bird species on their winter vacation.

It may be cold to me, but it comes

out of December and January and February

and compared to those it is a loving embrace.

 

It would die down in time, being born of the Midwest.

It would have to make way for the next forecast in short order.

But for now I am in a quiet universe.

A place that does not exist

in the regular cycling of day and night

a special occasion.

For that I see good reason to smile.

 

The rain is a special kind of friend:

not unsocial, but never does it force some obtrusive perspective

onto you.

It becomes a mirror for you

and if it’s smiling then you’re smiling back.

 

*

 

A day passes, and I have spoken too soon.

My friend has overstayed his welcome

at least, in the eyes of everyone I know.

White anger comes in bursts

green is everything everywhere, you think.

But if you try and find proof of it

you won’t.

Such is the trouble with saturation.

 

Saturated is everything, with the water

which tones all in touches now

in moods deep-seated

feelings heavy.

 

*

 

Weird stuff. I’m walking underneath this high ceiling

and my umbrella rests, poised to jump –

but it waits in my large coat pocket.

The only thing left right now is the mood.

 

It should be raining.

All signs point toward that

but it is a defanged snake that bites Columbia:

it lashes, yeah

but your fear bursts from your surprise at your own absolute calm.

 

*

 

Oh good

Flood warnings!

But still, the people are here. Floods, who cares?

And intimate conversation!

We are beyond social pleasantries

their reign of tyranny cannot coerce us here.

No lies

no acts

I can talk. Come talk to me.

 

*

 

Friday is changed; the party is done.

Instead, there remains a vacuum of wind moving

with violence through the grave of the mighty storm

only the mood still remains

and it is a mourning sensation, this morning.

 

I am sorry to see you go

because we really never met

we never really looked each other in the eyes.

I walked too quickly, like I was trying to avoid you

And you were pushed by winds.

You flew so far above me.

 

You are water, certainly.

But do you know what?

I am too, and more.