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,