The singing baby belies her poverty,
in tune with the blabbering rain.
It whips and rolls across the panes
with the fury of men transcended too soon;
Eternal summer brought them to the light,
but a little light does not eternal summer make.
And though it might amuse omniscient eyes,
earthbound hearts doth quake.
Spilling their anguish upon the aimless waves,
a discordant symphony drowns our sunny delights.
The clouds go dim;
The earth dissipates an opalescent heat;
Thunder ominously claps with bright white streaks;
Then sashes again slide shut, against the rains beat.
Given respite, for a moment, you believe,
summer’s prophesy is just beyond the sunset,
not merely autumn’s luminescence.
It might all be poetic, like poppies in Santorini fields,
if we learned to love the overtures of a babe no different from the rain.