Thoreau’s Umbrella

Rain, a cherishing.
From time to time slate
holds its burst.

Time and again, relents,
letting cold April
pour through the woods.

Tensed, then loosening,
drops break
clean from cloud.

The pond’s slick slope
eases, paths
wrinkle with rivulets.

The first spring rain
loiters upon
a seine of trees.

He loves this place,
flow drumming
every cell.

Thut! Thut! Thut!
Myriads upon
myriads—the Real—

In the womb of spring,
he inhales its wet
scent on his umbrella.