The night the trickle started
was the beginning of his undoing.
Stooping to unlace, the first dropp fell
soaking, numbing his fingers.
Fumbling, he finally separated
foot from shoe, as mizzlers coursed
continuously from his fringe. Through
a proscenium arch he wathed himself
dance the rain dance and wondered.
Laces snaking from his shoes, burrowed
into ground, sopping guy ropes
slipping, aided by tears dropping
from eyelashes and sky, His vision blurred
for an instant and the earth sucked dry
his sappy juice, for the roots buried beneath.
Stepping sideways from his shoes, he left the
puddle to one side and stood under the sun.
Watching the rain flood upon his right,
he basked in the rays, until blinded by purple
the deluge began. He welcomed the
whishlers as they bounced from his sight
beating upon drum skin, spraying violet,