Dove

I’ll take my descriptions of rain
As I prefer the rain itself,

Short-lived but sensual, as in
“The rain makes a sound on the roof

Of bare feet and petticoats.” No
Rain likely on my roof this week,

As mists from the neighbors’ sprinklers
Float past an orange crescent moon

Just above the roofs this morning,
In a darkness rhyming mourning

With a faint warning that, like rain
When it’s soft and lifts, goes soaring.