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.