It's a very wet day in March, and it looks like it will be raining again tomorrow. I'm feeling that sort of half-awake feeling that the rain brings on, and my fingers write these words out of my sleepyness.

The sky is falling
Dropping into little stars
hanging off the trees in place of leaves
and crawling like darkness up my legs
Shivering, my hair curls into tangles
dropping little tears down my neck.

The muffled splashing cries "On-coming!"
I dart out of the way
heedless of the evergreens
and they whip me wet in the face
punishment for my inattention.
Scornfull, they cry on my face for me.

Cimbing the stairs to my room of light
I watch the rain come down
merging wind and sky in the color of my eyes
Down like fleeing angels
washed off the heads of their pins
hiding in my hair from their fellows.

The firelight dances cheerfully next to me
and I curl up under my fluff
waiting for my teakettle's indignant squeel
listening to the water giggle and bounce.
But I am subdued, this time today,
while the downpour hides the sleeping sun.

© Anne Cross, 1998