The weatherman said it would rain hard on Friday.

During the commute, he said.  Snarling traffic, he said.

But by Saturday morning, only a sprinkle had fallen.

She had put on her rubber boots when she awoke,

And paced about in the yard.

The family dog followed her about with curiosity.

“Where is the rain?” she said.

Saturday passed in meteorological silence.

The clouds glared down their disapproval,

But they spoke nary a word.

 

By Sunday morning, the atmosphere was dark and ominous

(as it had been since Friday),

But still barely a drop had fallen.

That night, her mother and brother had taken the dog for a walk before dinner.

I went out to the front of the house to fiddle with the car

And came back wet.

I called to her, and said, “The rain is here!  I can feel it coming!”

And she grabbed her pink umbrella and spilled out into the yard.

“Dad!” she cried, “They’re going to get wet!”

I yelled back, “They won’t melt!”

 

And then, the rain it came in waves and waves.

It soaked the earth through.

The earth, the birds and trees, were quiet from the falling water.

The roof of the house tapped out the white noise

Of gravity-stricken dew.

“It’s raining,” she shouted.