Bukowsky’s rain was about money
All soggy but no bread at rain’s end
In van Gogh’s painted yellow light
And rainbow that held God’s smile
At which end , girls were not sure.
For seven days and seven nights
Our rain would go on a roof thatch
That held our young crows captive
Their black almost washed to gray
And the thatch looked a rice field
Sprouting last year’s left over rice.