In China it is raining.
Water and dust make a brown soup,
reroofing the buildings to still slicks
like squared-off ponds.

It is said, there is a reason
for these smooth water-spaces
in the middle sky–that they insulate
against the summer’s angry heat.

Still, I place a boy on a pond,
skate him on a winter’s mirroring ice,
let him ponder the cold, the concept
                                             of freezing,
that clarity where he need not
                                         touch ground.

Permanent link to this article: http://emilymeier.com/poetry/poetry-2/poetry/rain