Time Is Rain

By Peter Halstead

Wave your fronds up high and bake
in the beating sunlight’s wake,
frothed by gales of heated braids
in the liquid branches’ blades,

shake your lazy head and weep
at the sudden shower’s deep,
stormlit hands on backlit black,
draining on the metal shack

as we nestle in the night’s thick clock
pounding on the bobbing dock,
ticking on the windowpane,
as now’s the time, and time is rain.