The rain trees are pink again.
They litter with a shrug,
unorthodox for October,
whose vintage is Keatsian,
clammy with muscat fug;
the rain tree’s blush is sober.
In the north a torch is passed
from maple to oak to beech
as geese begin their processional;
the rain trees aren’t classed
with myths we preach
either of the Idyll or the Fall.
A matte sound sounds like rain too—
rustling dessicants, seeds dehiscent
concuss on the gutters of the ear,
as Heaney with his rain stick knew.
Rain everywhere is heaven-sent
but rain trees portend dry months here,
flinging skirtfuls of potpourri—
soiled toe-shoe pink, muhly grass pink,
sow’s ear pink, a silk purse made:
Can rain trees slake a parti pris
for elegy, for rain’s right clink,
and claim spring’s shade?