Premise

Suppose the rain treated us

As philosophers do—

Fingering skulls with sure duration

And knowing our time is brief

Sweetly steers attention away from dying?

Minturno of spring storm;

Proclus of fog skimming the fields;

Didn’t we talk to one another about seeing?

Oh yes, rain is the art of dying:

Men fear rain who do not shut their eyes.

S.K.