Was almost the beginning of summer.
One could guess that by the calendar but not by the weather.
Indeed the accusations of the sky indicated that we were to blame
That our minds, our routines
Were still stuck back in April Showers
Or May Mud
And it was simply following our lead.
This was not true.
Still, we pretended it was summer, or almost summer.
The sky held back its electricity and falling water
Keeping still, pulsating with energy,
And us down here gray and silent.
We wrote a petition for the rain to come, for the thunder to boom,
For the lightning to flash across the sky,
Or, if the clouds would not open up
Though our most sanguine hopes were willed against this notion
Then at least they would clear up and give way to the sun and blue.
Thinking that the latter option—that of melting away—was disagreeable,
The clouds obliged us, they signed their lengthy, cottony names to the appendix.
Today, it rained.