Waiting for the rain takes patience 
in this time of life.
When I was a child it rained often
sometimes in such torrents 
that we ran into the garage

and climbed on garbage cans
to watch it like the last three minutes 
of the NBA finals — long, 
punctuated, shouts, pauses.

We crashed the lids in imitation
and celebration.

But now it seems to drip and fuss,
as if the flowers and trees,
had just better get used to its moods,
to the ever-repeated windups 
of the pitcher on the mound.

And so I wait, 
hoping it does not notice my waiting,
does not as a result become sullen,
does not lurk back into its room
to storm on its own.

I honor its youthful independence
while I cajole it out,
persuade it to play fair,
beg it to freshen the air,
and to drum up all that joy one more time.