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Poem	After long drought, commotion in the sky; After dead silence, thunder. Then it comes, The rain. It slashes leaves, and doubly drums On tin and shingle; beats and bends awry The flower heads; puddles dust, and with a sigh Like love sinks into grasses, where it hums As bees did once, among chrysanthemums And asters when the summer thought to die. The whole world dreamed of this, and has it now. Nor was the waking easy. The dull root Is jealous of its death; the sleepy brow Smiles in its slumber; and a heart can fear The very flood it longed for, roaring near. The spirit best remembers being mute.
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