rainfall

There is a ghost moving through this least measure,
this scant mist like a breath on the shoulder,
that barest breadth of dry allowed before
the inevitable gathering of wet. It is set,
the gear-work of the farthest stars,
the happenstance calamity of lovers
fixed to meet: enmeshed in this next-to
magic, that burden of clouds weighted
gray upon this atmosphere trailing
a hushed legion of tailings.
The rain comes, a calm persuasion
lingering hints of blue along
ley-lines of green gratitude.
It puddles divots and cracks in the pavement,
settles bets of dust and air in mud.
A parliament of snails to assail brick and bough,
a judiciary of common crows to take the circuit.
The rainfall doesn't worry the arguments,
those questions of subject and object.
It glistens and it whispers, its name its only wake.