The sky is a linen bedsheet
It was new once, crisp and white,
but now greying, fading
from excessive agitation,
rumpled on a bed hastily made up--
Jesus, is that the time?
My professor is going to kill me!--
wrinkles pregnant with precipitation
The air is full of that selfsame smell
that detergent manufacturers try so
hard to reproduce
with names like Clean Breeze
and Renewing Rain
But no compound concocted
in a laboratory in New Jersey could
compete with that bouquet,
fragrant with rain
and je ne sais quoi,
as if all the life in the world were,
at that precise moment,
being born again.
September 2010
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