We are not used to getting our feet wet
when we step outside. We recoil at damp
mail pulled out of the box, shake our
annoyed heads when the cat pops in
through the flap in the back door,
fur glistening, paws imprinting the floor
like dirty rubber stamps.

We are a dry people unused to rain,
and while we are grateful in theory,
in practice we are rusty. The umbrellas
don’t unfurl as we think they used to;
our jackets get soaked, and it’s not
even a downpour out there—it’s
just plain old garden-variety rain.

And speaking of the garden, which
we gave up watering a month ago,
as of late this afternoon you could
surf across the backyard, and though
we just raked, something about
precipitation yanks down leaves
even without much wind, so that
brittle plates of sycamore float
atop the shallow sea, under which.
we imagine, stunned blades of grass
reach for the surface, waving like kelp,
as the invisible quarter moon
tugs on the tiny tides.