I am endless rain,
drowning dew,
a green-spored parasol
in tea-black soil.
I am a puddle on the surface
of grey-rock ledge
the slippery sheen of slate stone.
I’m coal black, wet
tree trunks with their patches
of vibrant, soft moss.
I’m the bass notes of green frogs,
the whir of toad songs,
night bugs mating on 
a screen door 
in porch light.
Ping-pong balls 
on a tin roof.

My city is gone.

I am soaking rain,
humidity my perfume,
curling hair frizz and
damp-showered skin.
I’m a shirt that sticks 
to slick backs.
Insistent like a deep-
tongued kiss. Languid, 
then lashing.

My city is gone.

I am a waterfall of rain,
a driving deluge, my
thunderous roar carving
new river banks and felling
shallow-footed tall white pines.
I keep midnight company,
create caverns out of concrete,
carry the refuse of humanity
from empty doorsteps.
I pour into their bottomless
secret places leaving
dark, murky, stinking pools. 

My city is gone.

I am a warning rain—
I am tree-trunk tangles on
railroad trestles,
a deep crevasse where you
used to drive home.
I carry mountains to
the other side of roads, 
twist bridges, spin cars
in river eddies.
I embrace the grit, 
scour it clean.

I feed on warmth,
build higher and higher into
ever-thicker clouds
heavy, full, and ready
to utterly saturate earth’s
dry, thirsty deserts or
already-soaked spongy 
woodlands.

I mist
       sprinkle 
                 pour
      drum
             pound.

I never mourn—
not cities, not roads, not homes . . .
mud to the ankles,
precious memorabilia,
delayed plans,
lost dreams.

July 10, 2023, Vermont