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.