Sometimes

nothing rhymes in the countryside.

The grass is all akilter,

flowers defy arrangement,

stalks whip and bluster,

apples drop unbidden,

pears refuse to ripen,

weeds run amok,

metre is all akimbo

and rhythm all asunder.

But sometimes after days of rain and thunder

when everything’s been jostled clean,

the trees all seem to sing in perfect verse

words that fall like leaves, blossom, fruit

all in surprising, wondrous order.