A rage of rain
on the tin roof;
a hammering
as of a thousand
carpenters;
water spilling
from the cup
of the sky, baptizing
houses and trees;
bright sheets
of water
blowing about
in the wind
like translucent laundry.
The ground is losing
its firmness--
each step
a sinking in,
a pulling out.
I long
for the barreling
sound of water
to cease;
for umbrellas
to fold their merciful
wings; for the sun
to come back
and wring itself out,
so the world--
like some shaggy
drenched beast--
can shake itself
dry.