Raining in Summer
Raining in Summer
Spray spittle from loose gray lips
magnifies the green wardrobe of spruce
A sea lion couple casually slips
from a rocky jut, their ragged brown coats
cycled into slick summer wear
The north wind pelts the rain bullets
harder into the sides of our nylons
off cold city glass and concrete
We grip wet parcels, have no control,
yet we never feel more alive
Clouds lovingly proliferate,
the south wind batters
the gutters fill and splatter
and it’s bath day, for us all,
even though it’s only Wednesday
A hummingbird passed away at the feeder
just now. Wet from beak to tail. Just before
she peed on my notebook, I’ll treasure
the smudge. An emerald sat beside her,
to look at or restore her —a tiny, gray
-feathered supporter
as is my husband, who spoke to her in low
tones, kept tender watch, her in her last shower.
We all have a last summer rain, a last sweet drink.
Best we can hope for is to die in our sleep,
as hummingbirds mostly do
rest our tired thinkers, in velvety petunias,
purple if we are lucky, and luckier still
if rain will soak us through,
on a summer day as good as any,
even if it’s only Wednesday
Copyright ©
Cindy Patrick
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