Overnight the rains have come.
The morning curbsides swell with temporary rivers.
The cranked-out kitchen window rings with raindrops
From our second story windows
the world is tree branches, rooftops,
and gray clouds without edges.
The shingles percolate as the rain
crowds into its worn paths
and collects in the gutter,
so full that four-leaved shoots have sprouted.
The rain falls invisibly.
On the street, green leaves
catch in the rivers and plunge through the grate.
The coffee pot clicks. Passing cars
sound artificial splashes.
I turn off the pot and pour
the last darkened cup,
watching out the window as the walnut’s leaves
wave in the wind
Again the rains have come tonight.
The winds gust to forty miles an hour
and storms that held sixty miles away before dinner rush in
as the street dims.
Outside the open window above the sink
something clangs as it is hit by the rain,
like cowbells, and draws the image of a pasture,
as the rains fall and horses bump up
against each other,
against of course a whitewashed fence,
and you, up in the farmhouse,
sitting with coffee and a scoop of cobbler,
watching the animals and the colored leaves.
Today and yesterday
the rains have been pushed out by cold
and water Maine and New Hampshire,
where the poets and year-rounders
fortify their farmhouses against winter.
Here the childless streets are quiet.
No wind stirs.
The edges of leaves are turning,
as if the trees have been uprooted,
dipped in red and orange paint,
and then replaced, one by one.
In town, pumpkins recline with squash
and gourds in the storefronts.
Leaves, crinkled half-closed hands,
play in the slipstreams of cars.
Darkness comes early now.
The radio said 6pm or so,
depending on where you stand.
The evenings drag,
punctuated by kettles of tea or pots of coffee.
Lamps throw down their light,
holding out circles against the cold and dark.
The forecasted low is forty-five.
We have put, on our queensized bed,
a kingsized quilt.