Untitled 4 (rain in Buffalo)
In Buffalo they have summer storms,
And even as a boy I would listen
To dark rain that lashes the panes of the sunroom,
Summer rain so warm you could swim in it,
And thunder like a belly laugh.
The home of my childhood rests at the end
Of a lonely drive and beside old pines,
The trees stark monoliths, pillars of stone.
Opaque as the rain, the woods fascinate
The same way the storm did —
Though I would never enter alone.
On no-rain days we would find other ways
To douse ourselves: water balloons,
The garden hose, from which we would run
Laughing and screaming, half naked;
Then a course towel to dry.
And nights spent searching for stars or fireflies,
Now for a sign, lips pursed, arms crossed;
The house I used to visit, sold along with the acres
Grandparents sought to protect,
Swallowed whole, gone.