• Couldn't Make it Home in Time

    Looking out into a darkening sky,
    where Mother Earth gathers up her
    great black skirt
    in masses of thunderous linen.

    Softly pulling the brakes on my bicycle,
    I glide to a soft but squeaky halt
    With a torn and tattered, bright green sneaker
    I flip down my rusty kickstand,
    perching awkwardly like a baby fawn.

    Water sprinkles down,
    light and playful
    disproportionate to the monstrous clouds.
    The droplets make off-color dots on the asphalt,
    polka dotting the pavement.
    In that moment, the world is a delicately speckled robin's egg.

    I resume my rythmic pedaling,
    drifting down the avenues
    with a mechanical regularity.

    I truly wish to witness the rain,
    the rain that comes so rarely
    in Chandler, Arizona, that each time
    is like winning the lottery.

    But all it takes is one
    bone drenching,
    teeth chattering,
    soul soaking ride in the rain
    to tell you when its time to hurry home.

    Warily glancing at the threatening sky,
    I quicken my pace.
    just as my apartment looms into view,
    a stopper is jerked from the great,
    atmospheric bath tub,
    and all the oceans of heaven came

    tumbling, pouring,
    crashing, flowing,
    turning endless somersualts,
    an aerial performance of
    unrivaled precision, grace,
    and fortitude.

    The once lakadaisical rain drops
    now careen towards Earth
    at breakneck speeds,
    imbued with vengeance and determination,
    set with the purpose of
    teaching a lesson to everyone and
    everything they can,
    displaying the force and wrath of their mother,
    with her great black skirts.

    They sure taught me.