Open the door to the rain...
April in January is bad, they say
and yes, I believe them.
But then I smell the fresh...
Grass is drenched and streets are slick.
Some droplets inch sneakily past the glass,
onto my windowsill. Still.
Now sirens begin blaring,
a wind gust breaks the calm.
And I'm reminded to light a prayer,
palms pressed together,
pulling up praises and pleas
for the waterlogged and windswept.