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?
