3: 00 a.m. Eastern Daylight Savings Time.
My roof is a ballroom, the tempo
of its rain-dance ranging from tap
to tango to foxtrot to waltz, a slow
sarabande, intermittent soft-shoe
until the occasional surf
of distant cars is the only music left.

Strings of rain have rewound themselves
back into the clouds that gave them birth.
I hum one of my mother’s favorite songs,
as if a few notes from Amapola
could unscatter her ashes
now tossing in distant, disconnected seas
and she could sing me to sleep
for at least a few hours.

What music will the dawn bring?
The weatherman predicts
a blue desert of sky,
silent and endless. Already I know
that tonight I will once again
have to make my own music.