Rain has its own beat.
Metered in fits and starts,
like the keys struck
by the short stubby fingers
of a child who doesn’t yet know
what a metronome is.

dash dot dash dot / dot dot dash /
dot dash dot / dot dash dot /
dot / dash dot / dash /
dot dot
dot

A mad morse melody
that calls to sailors’ knees
and reminds them of
a blue-tinged aching,
a slowness in the bones,
when the air is crackling and heavy.

In deciding not to run,
even as it comes down in sheets,
I hold the chill close,
let it soak through and spread.
Let it thrum, let it sing.

Let us revisit a wildness
we all quietly tame.
Soak gray green husks,
dried and brittle-broken,
with the shock of the dousing.
That heady, electric zing.

For all we know this is why
the spider still clings to the spout.
Drunk on double time,
it holds on and holds on,
however inevitable the rain.