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I sat on my driveway in the rain today,
wondering how I must look to the neighbors.
I'm allergic to grass and don't like dirt,
but I felt a yearning to commune
with nature. The driveway (common concrete)
seemed close enough to rock, 
which is just pre-dirt, besides
it was getting drenched in the shower, 
just like me.

In other words, I talked myself into this being
the same thing as a trail walk, or river swim,
or climbing like ivy up a groaning tree
because I'm here.
And without me, it makes no sound.

Someone else will have to speak
for those trees though—
right now it's just me and soaked cement
trying not to alarm AJ across the street,
peeking through hand-sewn curtains.

His wife doesn’t work.
He’s an arborist—
which I genuinely just remembered—
so maybe he can chat with the maple
in Renee’s yard next door,
beg it to reconsider its shedding ritual
until my husband fixes the leaf blower.

It may not matter.
The rain’s really coming down now—
there's lightning, which means thunder—
maybe even hail. This whole show 
could likely to strip the old gal down 
to her rough, brown skeleton.

I stay as long as I can, trying to discern 
what I have in common with all of it.

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