so, to be polite, I came
back home for Irene.
Wetly, verdantly
insisting on a moist seep
into my shoes, she
makes herself heard and
seen in downward bucketfuls;
it must be laundry
day on God's terrace.
Standing outside is a bath
I didn't ask for.
But, despite the wet,
there is intense watery
beauty in her storm.
The ground weeps: fullness.
There is a fertile promise
in the sucking mud.
Every puddle is
a crucible for green growth
upon dark clouds' flight.
As the dusk drops fall
on ground too sated to drink,
the contentment of
being indoors and
watching the tempest raging
settles like fine mist
on my damper thoughts.
I will enjoy the raining
as it washes Earth.
