125. Sweet Storm

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


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