In my part of California, spring rains end in April.
If we’re lucky. Then we usually don’t see precip

till late fall, one reason why we’re the golden state,
March’s greening going to straw by May.

Still, the breeze is redolent with millions of
nose and throat ticklers zinging around outside,

aiming for our mucus membranes. But I can’t
complain, my allergies merely annoying compared

to those of the late husband who suffered mightily,
aggravated by cats at home and tree pollens

in the greater world. Which he moved through,
fishing rod in hand, hand-tied flies piercing his vest,

never happier than when invested, wading thigh-deep
in a stream on a sunny day, nothing resembling

a raincloud overhead, which is how I imagine him
in the after—breathing easy, casting and casting

to his great heart’s content.