The Happiness Of Beautiful Things

It rained so hard that
I waited under the low boughs
of a thick tree
and stayed dry until the rain stopped.
Walking home in the street
there was a deluge
and it made my wet clothes too heavy for my body.
The rain pounded and bounced and echoed
so loud I didn't hear the man at first
who pulled up in the pick-up truck.
He stopped to ask me directions
to a road I had never heard of.
Water dripping from the tip of my nose.
He was listening to commercials on the radio.
I waited. He listened to my guesses.
“Are you from around here?”
I didn't know the answer to that question either.
We were on the only road on a small island
easily confused with other nearby islands.

At home I changed into dry corduroys
and made tea and sat in the loft of the barn
watching the rain on the window.
How much nicer it was under the roof
than under the tree.
All the wild things alive I can imagine
are not unhappy in the rain.
Have I ever been wild?
I, who am happiest
in a barn,
on an island
where I cannot find my way?