James Sedwick
Photographs
THE RAIN COMES
when we thought it never would.
The rain waters our neighbor's
new plantings of trees and bushes.
The rain waters our flowers
in beds and pots near the steps.
The rain is steady, for hours,
the kind of rain we say doesn't
run off but soaks in. I sit under
the back porch roof, breathing
and listening. Bracelets of water
droop from the roof edge
then slip onto the leaves
of Solomon's seals, which tip
when weighted and drop water
to the soil below. Wet berries
of Viburnum glow, handed upward.
No longer dumb from the heat,
throats no longer dry, all lips
and tongues and brown beards,
day lilies say orange. The grass
seems unmoved. A moth
and a few flies defy the drops.
All this from pewter laden
with water. The day swings by
on rusted hinges of blue jay calls.
My heart settles when rain drops
hasten, when the roof, the leaves,
the earth, greet them with applause.