Rain

I love to hear the rain.
It is like a thin sheet of tin rattling
As it peppers the windows,
The skylights,
The sidewalk.
The low sound of thunder
(The "potato wagon turning over"
Of my youth) brings a promise
Of violence
Or of renewal
Or both,
As it slowly grows closer.
It is spring.
Officially.
In reality.
As the trees bloom
And the leaves unfold
And I sneeze
From the whiff of pollen on the air.