It Rains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rains sure are wet:
They get that way when they are cast outside,
Down sleeping in the hedgerow,
Dampening the smoking pipes of old English Professors;
And the woods seem to cry with rain,
Yet to be defeated lovers underneath the aeroplanes:
And the woods seem dampened and that is when
You go out to meet your other man,
Feet pressing the switch backed crèches over the
Cemetery,
Going with all the muted pitter-patter,
My great uncle huffing paint out on the lake
And all the mortgages whispering, the greater poets tucked
In and well-hung, lucky hands molesting
All the things they gathered from class;
And bees are hung over in the still-life of their vases,
And all those flowers sit there drinking quietly uncertain
About death,
Rains flooding the eaves and making crepuscule early and
Confused, yet none the less beautiful, as I said
As it rains.