I love the sound of rain. I’m happy when
I hear it hit above me, see it pock
in puddles, watch it wash the streets again.
While others talk about their inner clock
I sense a fast barometer in me.
You think I speak in metaphor – you doubt
I really long for such humidity –
but I’m in mourning for this season’s drought.
I know I can’t change climate. I may wince
at too much February warmth, at spills
of excess light, but here is flowering quince,
and all around are spearing daffodils.
Resenting dry, I guess I’d better focus
attention on the stamina of crocus.