I sleep under a tin roof.
When it rains we are dancing,
almost a flamenco, but more scattered.
Our petite Rain Deity presents a tiny
machine gun that soothes our ears.
I bound from the arms
of my grandmother’s bed
and praise what Gods there be
for the night I have spent
half with you and half alone.
The grey skies are not like a battleship,
more resplendent as the nuthatch calls,
more vibrant as my heart and head tangle
with a rush that is only mine.
This is no day to force the forsythia.
It will grow in its time,
a time for which I cannot wait
— Bill Hickok