THIS MORNING’s rain
turned the birdbath into a tempest
and made the flowers bend low.
I am a rain lover
raised by a woman
who thought of rain
as ruiner of days.
a spoiler of picnics and outfits,
a turner of moods.
Possibly, when younger,
I thought the same,
back when I spent my life
trying to make curls straight.
Or maybe I had no opinion at all,
but just went along,
trying to keep her disappointment
in the weather
from driving the whole day downward.
ONE AUGUST AFTERNOON
at my best friend’s house,
after weeks of record heat and drought,
the skies quite suddenly opened
at 4 o’clock in the afternoon,
a real gully washer.
My friend’s mother,
a beer or two into cooking dinner,
left her kitchen,
and stood in the rain,
soaking it up and laughing.
We, 16 and embarrassed by everything our parents did,
went to bring her back,
but she’d have none of it.
She walked out to the sidewalk,
stepped off the curb
and splashed in the torrent
rushing through the gutter.
When we reached her,
we did the same. It seemed the thing to do.
There we were, the three of us,
soaked to the skin and laughing loud,
not caring if the neighbors were looking.
There was something in that moment, I know,
for I’ve never forgotten.