Six in the morning
and the rain subsided.
What was once a mighty giant

shaking the houses, banging
upon the roof and windows was now
a little boy,

making dribble castles
with wet sand.
The water that had accumulated

on the deck now ran off
through the cracks
onto the ground below.

It sounded as if someone
had turned a spigot on
over an oil drum.

The woods in the distance
looked massive, looming;
Tensed, like a dog’s

hind legs before he leaps
at the neighbor’s cat.
It was quite warm

in the house but I shivered
anyway. It was now six fifteen.
Steam,

in a baleful rebellion,
was assumed into heaven,
striking the halo of the porch lights,

It turned six thirty as I stood there
in a torn bathrobe;
time to make some tea.