A cacophony of little steps,
blinding when it falls fast,
clear as if looking through glass
during milder spring rains
enduring in quietude for days.
Foaming the surface of rivers,
gathering the birds bathing
happily in budding puddles.
Inside the rain, condensation coats me.
Jostling to become spots on windows,
kind to flowers who bow to her,
little raindrops make up the rain,
much like atoms make up everything,
nevertheless she is a whole being.
Opaque, navy clouds announce her.
Patters on the deck comfort the sleepy.
Quiet she is not, but quietness is in her,
rolling over the land in shimmering bands,
stopping mowing, sawing, shouting.
To be in a calm flat rain
under an umbrella is to be encased:
vault whose walls are temporary,
which moves as the ambler moves.
X-ing out the distant buildings, the sun's
yellow gives way to white, then rain
zips up the world in her silver zipper.
Mary Ann Honaker is the author of Becoming Persephone (Third Lung Press, 2019), and Whichever Way the Moon (Main Street Rag, 2023). Her poems have appeared in Bear Review, JMWW, Juked, Little Patuxent Review, Rattle.com, Solstice, Sweet Tree Review, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Beaver, West Virginia.