in the courtyard

in the courtyard where i watch it fall
the rain is coming down in widely varied measure.
a filmy discontinuous screen (or tracery) at the center
it's an unrelenting shower
relatively slow but rather sparse
an endless light precipitation
fractional concentration of sheer liquid meteor.
close by the walls to the right and left
heavier individualized
the drops come louder in their fall.
nearby they seem the size of wheat grain
over there a pea elsewhere almost a marble.
on window frames and railings the rain scuds horizontally
while on the undersides it clings in rounded lozenges.
molding to the entire surface of a small tin roof
that's visible below
it trickles in a thing skim moiréd in eddies
from the imperceptible bumps and ripples of the metal sheet.
in the adjoining gutter
it sluices along with all the application of a shallow rivulet gently pitched
then plunges abruptly
an absolutely vertical strand rather loosely tressed
straight to the ground where it shatters
and dashes up in glittering bead-tipped needles.

each of its forms has its own particular pace
a correspondingly particular sound.
it all exists intensely
a complicated mechanism precise as it is fortuitous
like clockwork whose mainspring is the weight of a given
mass of vapor in precipitation.
the chiming of vertical strands against the ground
the gurgle of the gutters
the tiny gong tones
all proliferate and resound together in concert
with no monotony with delicacy


when the main spring runs down
some few wheels churn on awhile
slower and slower then the whole mechanism comes to a halt.
at that point if the sun comes out again
everything soon vanishes
the glittering apparatus evaporates.
it has rained.

---Francis Ponge.

All through the night you were in my heart, all through my heart, so that when I woke up, startled, it was strange not to see you about. I carefully watched over your image, tended to it. The courtyard was neither full nor empty. All night ...like a song I once knew. When I awoke it was as if I had forgotten the words and all that could be expressed could only be done so mutely, secretively, without you knowing. Life, like music, returned to a series of black scars on a blank white page. (I'd missed you). Yet who is to say which was more real? You, dreamily quiet at night, slowly breathing in time with me, or the cold, absent you I wait for day after day?