This morning, all it rains
is drops: small,
But last night it
really rained. Rain was a wild hundred-handed
applause, a mad splatter
of endearments: kissy smacks and snappy
backslaps of affection, fat falling
loving mother seeds that drummed and pummelled
like music — like yeast — of life, drops rising
to a crescendo of affirmation. And
hot, inside themselves.
These morning drops from a lax sky
are only their worldly
into a bewilderness of loss.