After the Fact
A heavy rain wipes away the history of a pavement.
On a splashing surface it dashes off
an abstract and flowing script.
Watermarks thunder fleetingly
only to ricochets away
to stir the wordless with more fluid symbols.
I have seen rain write on mud,
moving punctuation marks around
with a drenching aplomb.
Symbols mix and meld
until an exclamation mark explodes
in a shower of meaningful spray.
I guess everything is a poem
as long as you don't call it one.
Writing is what the poem does
after it lands somewhere.
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