When it comes right down to the melody of rain

the road is a flute and the madrigal is made,

in the same way love is made,

from the actual falling itself.

Limiting ourselves to wind instruments,

because that is the club where the mouth,

as you know, is an indispensable member.

But whose soft O, whose parting lips,

whose unhinged jaw is responsible

for this foggy serenade, never to be had

the same way again?

As for the conduction, there are innumerable

variations. When the water is stilled and no longer

descending, that's when the bridge appears.

An in and out fugue that dutifully takes over:

The moon's thick sigh, the wind's twin coughs,

the clandestine whisper between the cow

and her mountain. These will each do

for they all capably contain the left, long ear of song.

A woman composed of rain is not a band

unto herself. Though some would argue

the lake that holds her shape alone is a royal

philharmonic. A constellational polyphony

that can crash two lily pads or keep two lily pads

from crashing. There are components reflected

off of a woman's body that could arrest

even an ant in his wandering from the dock.

So you see it's merely a tiny skitter in thought

from there to here, the place where one realizes

that a grandfather snoring under the flat,

magazine-sized leaves of the fig tree is himself

the wrinkled reed that the dust rises up to play.

As the island's only meteorologist I take great

solace in saying things like this: "Partly cloudy

skies will give way to mostly cloudy skies,

with a fair chance of a sprinkle." Drip by drop,

goes the melodic falling—rain entering and

departing through the small doors of the harmonica.

—Karen Zusman