There is a time when the sound of wet tires on Harris Street
Comes as a surprise.
Gravity has worked its irresistible craft
On the water cycle,
Leaving carbuncles dangling from the tips of the potted spruce.
It goes on,
And green returns to the carpet.
It goes on,
and chimney smoke begins to fight its way upward through it.
It goes on,
and the streets are washed,
the gutters are scoured,
And the sweetgum's leaves' resistance is finally defeated.
Yet, it goes on.
Invisible vigor stirs the iris rhizomes
As the unfathomable art of water goes quietly about its business,
And I can't forget my gratitude.
Still, when the day comes
That the wet hiss fades
from the suserus of passing cars,
I'll be likewise moved
By the enormity of open skies.