The rain, at first,
sounds like there’s someone
tapping at the window,
but the only one out there wanting in
is my half of a reflection in the glass.
But now, there’s more of them,
not just thumping against panes
but pounding the roof as well
and even a few whacking away
at the walls, the doors.
Then the rain slows
and these prospective interlopers
are more timid in their knocks,
less sure that inside is where
they want to be after all.
Then it stops altogether.
The shower has passed.
Puddles abound.
Grass glistens.
The rain is home at last.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Visions International.