Returning to a Balcony

The rain pools under

roofs without gutters,

the soft taps drop like

faucets through

rusted utility

piping seeped in the wet ground

as a planter's hands

and feet in the muddy,

Earthy garden soil.

The roof is a drum,

a snare and high hat,

rhythmic rain tempos

are like seven years

without a poem.

I lie on my side,

legs lightly touching,

as lighting creaks through darkness,

streams seep through sharp valleys,

my eyes press the light

closing in on a drift,

toward sleep

returning to a balcony,

covered, warm, wet.