Standing under the yellow maples in October rain
Is like standing inside the sun —
only cold, but the light is there;
The rain splatters, the leatherly leaves crackle and sing,
And depart like little comets
The grey of the sky becomes less low and oppressed
As if the leaves filtered out
All that is dim and tears.
Rain drops on my face and dries in uncountable spotlets.
Unable to look at the sun, I
take the next best option, right here.