At first, the rain comes in whispers:
thin slants on the windows, then it scrawls
across the glass like long graffiti,
reaching out to stretch mark the gutters
and dwarf the downspouts. The birds vanish
past the flamboyán trees: a quick foreshadowing
of the sky gaping in steep clouds. Thunder shutters
through the treetops, while lightning siphons
off the breath like fragrant heat. The rain plunges
in the arched breezeways, decapitating the hibiscus
and beehive ginger into matted limbs. The afternoon
takes me hostage: wind whipping my forlorn face,
kidnapping the right side of skin. What more do I
have to give. Not even a turn to God to rebuke the hours.
