The rainy season always catches me
by surprise. Again I take up
the ongoing tale of the umbrella.
When the rains come,
one gets opened,
the other stays shut.
You’re pleased if my left hand
blocks the whole downpour,
ribs centered right above your head.
Drizzle or deluge,
night or day,
my one ear works for both.
Rain strafes the roadside puddles
shining on your right.
If your steps don’t quicken,
mine must slow.
You tell once more
how I fell in love
our first rainy season
with the dripping at the umbrella’s edge.
Rain still falls
on one umbrella.
Through ceaseless torrents,
through a vanished landscape,
you and I walk on.
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