SOME BEAUTIFUL THINGS THAT ARE HAPPENING
IN THIS TORRENTIAL RAIN
All the trees slung low and heavy.
Four slim wrists emerge
from four open car doors
and simultaneously four umbrellas bloom.
Each person who rushes into this cafe
with their drenched faces and drenched pants
opens their jackets to a dry, warm middle.
They look around like Did you see that?!
Each one thinks they are the first
to tell us about the rain.
And the trees blown back, their cold faces released.
The little glints of streams across the asphalt.
The way the water rises like a huffed breath under the tires.
The time we sat in bathing suits and towels on the concrete
in a hurricane. He had just died.
That was not a beautiful thing, but it was important.
He still felt more like the birds in the storm, gone
but gone somewhere.
Our friends walked by with raincoats humped over their backpacks.
And you put on sunglasses and lifted your face to the downpour.
Yesterday you showed me how to water your whole garden.
How the young peppers need more. The summer squash in its own pot,
flowering and fruiting simultaneously, needs more.
I will do it. I will take care of your plants while you’re gone.
And I’ll do it because I love you.
But I know you wish I’d do it because I loved the plants.