Rain

Rain . . . a layered thing
peeling back one drop
at a time that which
remains otherwise
hidden – the undersides
of leaves . . . tree frogs
making a run for it
(who knows why)
across the roads . . .
worms surging out of
the dirt into the water
warmed by the sidewalk’s
sun-baskededness . . . the
rumbling of a world other-
wise unheard in the reverb
of a single clap of thunder . . .

washed away the lies told
to make truth more palatable . . .
the  I will not that hides behind
the I cannot and calling it
kindness cannot stand where
the floodwaters have washed
such things as nonsense away
leaving only real in its wake

as the tree frogs rush to make
it across the great concrete
divide thinking the water their
friend . . . unaware of the rumbling
approach and mistaking the tires
for thunder and all it not well