If you open an umbrella indoors,

expect a rain of spiders.
If they retreat to the bamboo grove,
you know it is to write poems on each stalk.
If rain is warm on your skin, go
into the backyard with a bar of soap.
If it slips out of your hand and floats
on the river, the capsized ferry
will arrive ten minutes ahead of schedule.
If thunder makes the sound of a hundred forks
falling to the floor, bring out wine glasses.
If the cat licking itself
is facing the door, expect guests.
If the color of the sky is indistinguishable,
you are allowed to start over.
If your friends turn first blue
then petulant, tell yourself
it’s only weather.
If the tilde is missing
from the n in your name,
you know you are done with that.


In response to small stone (170).

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