Overnight Storm Poem by robert dickerson

Shaken, as from allnight labor, the marigolds
lean their heads against the windowbox,

itself
pushing up silent Cosmos.

Uncannily fresh morningglories, striped purple, white and green,
blare the end of Deucalion.

The little, blue, pressed-plastic chair, quite soaked, stares and wonders
'Who will sit on me, now? '

The porchtrees try their bravest to grin
and put themselves aright.

Greyly, the receding firmament still boils.
Everything is wet, wet.

Even the normally stoical jade mutters, leaf to leaf,
'What a fright. What a fright'.

Only the corner broom,
easy to overlook, smiles and admits

amidst the gleaming cuit de terre, 'This is not so bad'
for there is a sparrow, barred brown, in it's basin-

ful of chilly rainwater, bathing, shaking it's wings
scattering droplets hither. Hither and yon.