Too soon this wind will blow the wet away,
but now the air is sixty, humid, soft.
Leaves everywhere: both sky and puddle flecked
with yellow - oak and ash and willow. They
exhale again - feel frisky - want to play:
forget the furnace summer; dance and float.
The trees sway, branches wave - not bare, green yet
in places, but more red or brown each day.

Is nothing sweeter than a rain washed sky?
Gray cloud shreds race, leave space for fields of blue.
My flannel shirt is muted, multi-hued:
I'm camouflaged! I am no longer I:
I'm this: this wind, this rain, these dancing leaves,
this earth, this sky. I'm open: I receive.