was ever spent to repent
in a room in a box
on a block in the Bronx
with a vision I’d say
Heaven sent.
For once upon a gritty city,
blocky gray, I’d say, but pretty
in a way the witty might perceive.
It took a kid, a tyke, a tot,
a pretty girl or gritty pearl
to see what’s there or not.
Some called her Mellie, I believe.
Up’s where there’s blue,
the witty all knew,
in that Heavenly sky, it’s true,
and rainbows that arc
green trees’ tippy tops,
whereas Down, as they’d say,
was nothing but gray:
streets, sidewalks, and roofs of shops.
But pitty pat and tippy tap
rain pellets draw a different map
on her window: another view.
Now Up is gray, I’m sad to say,
a dreary day, it’s true.
Whereas Down—don’t frown—
you’ll see a town once gray
become something new.
A ticky tock calls 3 o’clock,
and Mellie knew as few would do
what happens when the schools unlock
a rush of kids and their play-fellas.
It’s the rain, I’ll explain, the magical rain!
It blooms gray blocks into gardens
of umbrellas.
Copyright © 2018 Cynthia G. Wagner
 |
| Image by rock_rock/Pixabay |
Love, hosaa
explaining the raining
