After so much heat,
the clouds bear down 
but refuse to rain.
Then a gift: 
a kind breeze picks up
and you’d think the world was saved
the way the windows fly open 
and breathing begins again 
as if oppression were a rumor 
finally nailed to the door. 

Still, the oil gushes out of the ocean floor
just as we’d always prayed it would—
surely a sign that any gods
who haven’t left town for the season
throw up their hands
and laugh at the willful way
we succor ourselves again.

So much for this life and the petty delusions
that make it work so well. 
I’ll take up with the breeze
and throw my hands in the air. 
Not the mad man next door
muttering how it’s all gone to hell,
but one who’s wise enough 
to rise above the heat 
and makes himself accessible
to assess damage, reconcile loss— 
perfectly deaf to any wailing below.

The rages of recent days settle upon us,
grow into practical comforts:
those we’d trusted to allay the silence are silent; 
one-time lovers barely recognized in the hall;
what might have been called kindness once
—a nod as we pass, a door noiselessly latched,
Such a handsome tie — become particular annoyances.
As is this sudden sun, the way it nudges us unwilling 
into a mood we’ve lost the context for.  

So let’s remember with nostalgia just yesterday 
when the rain turned to hail the size of lab rats,
translucent, fat and blind—
they made that scurrying rat-tat-tat on the roof 
and those death-defying dents in the parked cars 
and even the ones trying to escape
though there was nowhere to go.

It’s harsh weather that could comfort those 
who lose sight of what life is about—
ducking shards when the glass shatters about us
even in the so-called safety of our homes.
Here’s real running through the rain
and not even vaguely romantic.
The drops, suddenly so visible,
might turn out to be much less hazardous 
to our long-term health and well-being.