rain reigning

when the rain reaches a drum roll status 

and wants to lick everything it can seize. 

my eyes are there to absorb all that I see 

that happens without any concern of order or manners.

my senses are victims of these thermals and skirmishes. 

it is as if a low level carwash has invaded.

visually, it is a broad band of cannibals 

in downfall chaos, eaten cotton candy.

the drum rolls continue to background moan. 

the artist of the moment forgoes the use of a brush 

and begins the task of painting with rollers.

for the paint is coming down in applications, 

so thick, that gravity intercedes 

to seek a sense of leveling.

if the earth's surface was a reflecting mirror,

all one could see looking down 

is a current of ripplings in a skyward reflection.

and the drum rolls continues to take breaths. 

there is an auditory sigh,

that is out of scale and yet still happening.

space becomes a prairie choir 

that is constantly in the background, humming.

it feels like a background conversation, 

in which everyone else is talking, 

and I am the only one there for the listening.

as the sound becomes so definite. 

it is as if my ears are wearing itchy wool.

it's like an auditory stampede, 

in which everything is happening in standpat place 

and movement is below the horizon of observance. 

the verticals, are slant definite, 

and the horizontals are ripply sneaky.

the earth, as a presentation of skin, 

went from wet to lathered 

to a veil of tears, 

reflecting the river of mood.

and I am there, 

standing in this symphony of tears,

with a sympathy of feel within me.

and it is as if the wind is sweeping,

when it should have brought a mop. 

this is what I would have imagined as a child,

that growing pains would sound like.

so that now everything that was in stillness 

has received a coat of liquefied.

this is where rush and scurry tonify, 

everything that's visually heard.

it's when weather has its reasons for weeping,

and I never really identify, why.

so, if you like this onrush of wet-numericals,

then a rainstorm stampede gone,

is like a sadness aftermath . . .