The seashells near the ocean
where I grew up are storytellers.
Every morning, feet burning... [+]
The intricate sounds of Orozco's Guitarra and
the beep, beep, from passing automobiles fill
the warm air, and rise towards the burdened sky as
Rain materializes from thick grey nimbus clouds,
and falls onto the City; yet, the mood is not somber.
It is Sabbath.
The mid-April air smells of wet dog, and filth,
the smell of the City's deep cleanse from morning showers.
The birds perform their cantata
as Orozco orchestrates their instrumental.
The asphalt sidewalks glisten from the rain, no
longer holding yesterday's shit.
The dusty jalopies, in the same parking spots
since 1983, are cleaned by nature's car wash.
The dry, cracked, winter soil brims with water,
retaining some for tomorrow's growth.
A black Family Dollar umbrella is burlier than the rain patter,
as its holder hunts for the morning brew at Big Block Deli,
keeping clear of swooshing tires, kicking up muddy water,
on drenched streets.
Outside window plants, neglected by winter's love, finally,
finally, taste the sweet waters from nimbus, too.
The grimy, brick, six-story buildings, which cover blocks and
blocks of the Bronx, receive their infrequent cleaning,
now presentable buildings with homes to rent.
And to see this, to feel this, to smell this powerful presence,
which comes into our lives once and a grey,
and gives, and gives, the gift of purification, and the
gift of life, is knowing that the change, the moment of revival,
the clear blue sky, blue like the sea, and the arms stretching
towards it, smelling the morning dew, embracing the demure
beauty of the new day, with cheerful anticipation, is because
The Rain has cleaned more than the streets.