African Rain

It falls with grace. Metallic bawls hail the strength of zinc roofs. At the mercy of the thatch, Drops drip from needle points of skeletal Palm fronds. Particles of rain descend on thresholds Among dewed terrains. The petrichor befriends the atmosphere, Caressing limpid warmth with floating cold. Lightning, a white dancing Anaconda, races with speed, Filling the tenebrous plains with lights of hope. Troubled skies ululate through the power of thunder. I always recline on that liquid voice! Rainmakers cream their palms And roast fresh leaves of Epochal petals Plucked from somnolent trees. Bubbles, green and full of life, puke, Filling up the mouths of burning woods. Grey darkness suggests the pleasant wars of May through October, When distant wayward drops Trickle before the deafening deluge. I hail the blandishments of July For the society of fattened yams and the Worthy tendrils —festooned confetti of ceremonial Harvests. Droughts yawn in vain when the attitude of Wet seasons befriends the skies, Yielding fecund grimes that grace the soil.