By John Grey
Heavy rain bounces off the porch,
ricochets into the garden
for a rose's second helping.
Headlights on high,
a car rolls by
playing Rossini of all things.
Not a thieving magpie,
but a cheerful chickadee
warbles the low notes.
Wind is on the rampage,
trees bend like stooping men,
windows rattle like coin jars.
It's an afternoon in free-form,
violence here, music there.
There'll be some ruin in their near term
but a clear light, a green smell,
to go with it.
And roses will bloom,
inspired by all outside of it
but colored from within.
