and tore fronds from palms, everyone chanting, “it’s come,” “it’s come,”
while farther along the earth’s curve, “it’s coming,” “it’s coming”, the newly
planted and the dry well, the outdoor dwellers tying down their tarps,
the purveyors of prophecy offering hourly inches.
I like to think of it as a chandelier of drops draped over us, dynamic in configuration and intensity, refracting light to pure bands of color.
The girl asked me if I could explain to her the water cycle as an invitation to intimacy, between kisses, for there is nearly infinite elasticity in water’s forms, mist, river, cloud, torrent,
coded by color on the ever-changing chart, and I would lift my face to it,
and I would duck my head, and I would shelter through the worst, while wishing myself so wild.