Wild is the rain tonight
hard-driven against the windows.
Long has it been since those
staccatos played fingernails on glass.
Rivulets like drunken autos
swerve recklessly down the pane
gathering to a gain ramming
all the droplets ready for
the next convenient cause.
Blustery gusts howl approval
as storms drains, clogged
by loitered leaf and leftover twig,
swell in protest against removal.
How the uproarious hour is upon us
in grave and solemn weight.
And yet the rhythm on the street
is frivolous still, a light-toe tapping
on the loose swinging gate,
and gutter spill cheer drips
a playful cadence, crisp and clear,
prophet of the happy ending
the wind will not quiet down to hear.