Morning After the Rain

by John Perry

 

The rain must have come and gone

early this morning.

It had to be after midnight

because I didn't hear raindrops

dancing on the shingles

before I fell asleep.

 

And when I awoke

there was only the tap... tap... tap

of occasional drops

sliding from the eaves

and the broad leaves of the Sycamore

outside the bedroom window.

 

Runoff puddles the pansy beds,

bows the heads of lilacs

that perfume the front steps.

It chases fat earthworms onto the sidewalk

where the neighbor's cat

paws them into twitchy wiggles.

 

Sunlight slips across the boulevard,

climbs the backs

of wine-colored Crepe Myrtles

and snow-white Azaleas

that guard their shadows like mother hens.

The sun dries wigglers into contorted sculptures.

 

The cat uninterested in motionless toys

tiptoes across the damp lawn

shakes rainwater from its paws

climbs the front porch steps

and curls up next to a rocking chair

just outside the reach of shadows.