Our first in fifty years,
we didn't wake to it.
Morphing from morning rain,
arriving in afternoon
 
it's lasted overnight
into this second day.
At dawn, no turtle doves
but cardinals and squirrels
 
adorn the swaddled trees.
The drystack wall's a widow
with black mascara streaks
that make you look for eyes.
 
For now, no eyes but mine
beholding early light—
that seems to grow within
each dogwood, maple, oak—
 
not flowing from the sky                     
but bursting from the earth
too full to hold it in,
too full to say a word.


© by Gilbert Allen.
Used with the author's permission.