More on rain

I guess I'm kind of into rain lately. I wrote this poem for class.

A heavy sheet suspended overhead
Hangs waiting and collecting, drop by drop,
The moisture that will soon be rain. With dread
We wait—the storm will come, will rage, will stop.

The sticky air is hot and moist and still
While trees shake timidly their lemon leaves
And whisper that they sweat through bark, until
The pregnant raincloud rumbles, groans and heaves

Ferocious gray above is rent in two
It pours its wrath relentlessly to earth
The birds and beasts that crawled or stalked or flew
Now huddle, damp and drying, in their berth

The storm has come, has thundered, and has gone
And now the sun appears, an evening dawn.

Waiting to Rain

Grey underbellies of clouds weaken the sun and trees whisper that the air sweats. If I were an archer I would shoot the heavy clouds with a feathered arrow and watch the water pour from that one gash, like puss from a blister. Or if I were a bird I would dive upward, piercing the grey with my beak and drenching my body, swooping in and out and in again and peppering the clouds with holes that would release rain like a sieve. It is waiting for me to rain.