Green, green, the maples preen themselves
Up and down Prospect Street, their cells plumping up
Like nervous freshmen before a dance,
The bird feeders need daily refilling, the hot
Azaleas enhance their orange and fuschia tints,
The rhododendrons puckered dryly inside
Their big buds have begun to force themselves out,
Apple blossoms lie in shallow pools
At the feet of their trunks. All afternoon
Relentless pouring rain soaks the ground,
Beats the roofs, rat-tat,
Races down the gutters.
I imagine it falling into the Hudson River
Around the scows and barges. I imagine it
Splashing the yellow slickers of road crews.
I pretend that I am farms and towns stretched out
The breadth of New Jersey and Pennsylvania
Flat on my back looking up at a gray sky.
The grays shift, it must be windy up there,
I feel the rain batter me, how good it is, cleansing
The air, pocking my skin–
Good, good, like sex after childbirth
When the body is keen
For pleasure again.