Day 11 -- Bop

Bop with Raindrops and Dylan

In April we know by heart rain's translation to variegated green
blossomy, bloomy, quivering things: you can name them all
these flowering trees, each shrub-busting loose-lyric azalea
and their birdcalls too. Tennessee spring, I find your broke-open eggs
in the street when I walk out between cloudbursts just to see the weather-bruised sky
and I want sometimes to say to all that wet life: stop, stop, yer killin' me

and it's a hard rain gonna fall

This afternoon the storm kept throwing itself against my window
like the feds breaking down hearsay's front door again and again.
I couldn't see a damn thing, not the trees, not the light poles, not the people
running, running. It felt like amnesia, now contagious, which leaves
us suggestible with regard to what is here and what is not here.
Would it matter where, if it kept raining like it's raining
and we kept loving like we're loving, throwing our bodies
against the windows of our souls, would it matter where we meant to go?

and it's a hard rain gonna fall

And so, my blue-eyed darling one, the weather report favors
wind and rain; there'll be peepers and birdlings and snakes
to make us zero-boned and glad.  If we walk out we'll be
rain-wrapped, thunder-thrummed, a little uneasy. We could
file for divorce from gravity; we could wish the nightcloud
to unpeel itself from the moon, watch her play tag with Jupiter.

and it's a hard rain gonna fall