The morning rain
Of small, cold, icicle droplets
Form thunder-gray shadows,
Inaccurate pictures of substantial objects,
Soften the contours of buildings,
And the pine trees have no needles.
They laugh, a harsh sound, a chorus of imps,
Screeching as they fall from upward – sing down
Into my face – tears trace patterns on my cheeks.
But the sun lets down a widening ray and
She lights up the spring-bare branches
And the soft, evergreen needles;
She shows the imps that cling to the arms and fingers of the living wood
their true form…
Life-watered diamonds that lace the trees with lights.
Stop and look, let beauty astound you
When the sun lights up the rain shadows.