a note home.
and it rains every day, here.
Just silver whispers, falling
on the palm trees
and the black gliding
umbrellas moving down the cobblestone avenues.
The white birds launch in a rain
of wings,
passing the saints perched
on cathedral walls
who solemnly ignore the rain
and the slow moss
growing under their chins.
Rain slides in sheets
from awnings,
and tourists still skitter
from store-front to store-front
looking for a postcard with some sunshine in it, please,
trying to ignore the dirty woman huddling
under the dripping orange tree
in the pale, cold afternoon.
Dusk falls, and the rain turns
purple
and gray
while the tall thin trees
become still sentries
watching the lights smear
the black pavement with adagios
of color
and slow-moving
sound --
the rush of traffic and the sluicing goodbye
of rain down the gutter.
Not till far past now,
when the nearby church bells have grown
long,
and then short,
will the rain slowly
lull itself asleep
in the slow taps
on the dark roofs
of a thousand
quiet
homes.
