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 saying ‘hello’
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
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
Such is the trouble with saturation.
Saturated is everything, with the water
which tones all in touches now
in moods deep-seated
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.
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.
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.
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