It Rained, so I Wrote (Part I)

My bike leaned against the dripping trellis
and while I was gone, the concord vine grew
around my brakeline as though telling me
that maybe I should slow down . . .

So I walked down the wet road
and the sky obscured the lofty
tops of apartments along my way.
The fog covers these façades
and the mist keeps them mysteries.

Looking up I saw the
trembling glass beads of melodies
strung across these bars of branches
and as I read the rain's notation,
on leaves, buds and twigs,
a bird alighted
and in an act of composition,
the notes fell,
and the scored called
for a few more measures of rest.

But the heavens are still heavy
and I feel drips dropping
staccato on my face as the
rain writes, once again.