To Catch a Monsoon

 

I.

 

The clouds are

mangled bodies,

their troubled, twisted limbs

lie in heaps,

squirming because even they

are uncomfortable in these skies.

 

Allah must be crying this monsoon season,

heavy, panting sobs

that stick to ribs

and warrant no escape.

 

These cities,

now overtaken by

the motion above

are pausing.

Ferlinghetti had it right.

This waiting,

this rebirth of wonder,

will come

with the rain.