First Rain

The day it rained for the first time

after I moved here, I threw open the doors and windows

and invited the thunder in for a cup of tea.

I would’ve enjoyed the company.

Alone in a house yet unmarked by grubby fingers or spilled dessert,

— remembering my mother shaking open her umbrella to survey

her garden, exchanging nods of greeting with the drenched flowers;

— remembering too many friends crowded under too few umbrellas,

elbows and laughter jostling for space in a golden night;

I look at the raintree glisten, drenched in the answer

it has relentlessly demanded of the stone-faced sky — crow slick

with surprise swooping and swiveling out of the way of their embrace —

and I let myself be swept away by this new rain in this new place

so that when the time comes, I may remember this place too,

with fondness.

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