Rain is coming,
and every leaf is applauding,
the maples showing their frosted palms.
I hear the train whistle at the crossings
from deep in the wooded valley.
Rain is coming,
wordless, but not silent,
a sighing in the crowns,
unless to say love,
unless to say loss,
the wind clattering in the corn,
a simplified beginning.
Poetry is a sky giving a performance.
The west is darkening,
silver veils far off against the gray.
Rain is coming.
Say something to me.
