The Feral Poet was sequestered, wherever it is he sequesters himself, during all the rain and storms of the past week, and came up with the following observations.

After Rain 1

A storm
moves across the island
into open ocean.
White caps strain
to follow in residual wind.
There is no horizon.  Inland,

you can’t know
the way rain moves
on the water.

* * *

After Rain 2

Black wet trunk
of bay tree
swallowing whole sky
after rain;
someone’s bay tree
glimpsed long ago
over a garden wall.

* * *

Rain Moods

Rain approaches.
A blue-jay, grown suddenly silent,
flies to the lowest branch of an oak
and cocks his head toward thunder.

The first drops arrive with individuality.
I am by the window,
pondering which house plants
put out in yesterday’s rain should remain
and which should be brought in.
Near the street a banana tree is smiling.

Rain from the roof marches
on stones of the patio.
A message appears in the cadence:

let it all go
let it all go

let   it
let it all go.

Ferns jerk in the dark like hearts
with a remembrance older than air.

let it all go
let it all go

let   it
let it all go.

* * *

Still Point

I meant to use the rain in my work
when the morning flannel sky darkened further,
anticipated intimate scenes in distant thunder,
drew purpose from the first great scattered drops
on the awning.

But in a lull in the storm
the cat comes out from under the sofa,
climbs in my lap, and I hold her close
with interlocking fingers for the duration.

Whom do I tell of this and other blessings
of the still point, which fills my life?

The world charges by; the storm abates.
Like all authentic revelations,
it’s all so private, after all, so personal.
Nothing to be shared.

* * *

White Paper Sky

All day we’ve had little showers,
nearly invisible, the southern fringe
of a front to the north
moving out to sea to feed.

Nothing, really, the ground
isn’t even wet.  But out there
the curved gray signature of rain
is penciled on the white paper sky.

* * *