fat rain

 

“It reached us. It passed us,

totally unimpressed.”

— from “Small Rain”

by Norman MacCaig

 

storm boughs bucking

far up the cedar trunk

wave like arms of a woman

too busy for fitness, flesh

under raised limbs flapping —

 

each branch conducts a breeze

in a direction different

from emerald counterparts —

paler tones for her

virginal upward gestures

 

summoning in small offspring

who play in downpour

and (made mad by mud)

reach and pass that point

 

of the icy shaking skinny frailties

their mother sees, her wanting

to fatten them against frost

when rain chunks up