When rain rains steadily on roof and deck
knocking in gutters splattering against the window
as if flung by a Millet farmer sowing rain
we stay inside all day succumbing to drowse
In the evening my love lay down to read
and I began to muse by the fire
as if time were elsewhere real but elsewhere
then there came over me an compelling sense
I could not name
It causes hunkering down
listening like the boy
whose mother put pots and pans everywhere
different sizes different shapes
that caught the rain inside the house – what music!
Neruda called it poetry