If rain streams down
In cold rivulets, and
Freezes at the midnight town
And all those among you

Mis-read the forecast, furrowed
And deep frowned, look
For simple explication of
Stranger things you found

In the icy silken shade of cloth
That covers all your towns,
(at least in this hemisphere)
How strange, it would appear

That impasse in meaning met,
Could not the wipers clear?
Scarce I meant for my rain
To rent, a hole in your arrears

To comprehend my strange land
Or ways of thought.
That I once sensed
May be in the clear.

Maybe not yet.