The sun pranced out after the rain
As if it were some glowing hero!
As if we weren’t humbled in anonymity,
Pleasant, numbing, insulation
From such villainous precipitation.
Maxwell Parish sighs, the artist
Is always too late to his easel.
Missing the sheets and shards,
the splash and writhing hiss
Of small united rain drops,
Terminating on the ground
In a death pact, shhh, and die.
I wish it to stay
To drown the sun just once.
Aspirating glaucous somber gun metal gray.
Most perfect line, speeding vertically down
Through a windless,
Most un-hoped for day.
Chased by the lumbering sledge of Thor
hastened by this ancient molten core.
Gravity, once more.
…I slide shut a thin glass door…
for the villain and hero to rumble on,
Rumble on….the spoils to the victor.
Hopes we take into our sleep
