It's Raining Inside James Schuyler

Not tearing the umbrellas inside out
not even blowing them side to side
just getting wetness wetter
and then the rain dwindles
but the sun has a shimmer
like it's missing the rain
and every once in a while
the trees in the park let down
a drenching
like they have to admit:
Oh I almost forgot about the rain.
So many Aprils.
And then the rain is back
in strings
like hair from a horse's tail.
Oh good. Weather everywhere.
Inescapable weather.
Even in everybody's
buttonholes: weather.
And someone has put an umbrella over
Gertrude Stein
in Bryant Park
where she squats
like a toad.
Blossoms drift past and cigarette
ash in the rain
and somewhere in a pond
koi swirl against koi like
they're rehearsing
to be a kimono.
The koi look
like they've been scrubbed
by a brick
which is why I won't leave
this little metal table
with its legs
modeled on insects
among insects.
And now it's raining
in the sunlight.
And the afternoon has a new
nip in it.
Chill April.
Rain lands on my neck
and slips further,
little geraniums of rain.
That's all right.
Long ago a rain drop
fell from a leaky ceiling
into my eye
and I lived for that.
And then walking not slow
there is my friend
decades since we've seen each other
and he knows me instantly.
The same raincoat, he says.

LEE UPTON