a cellar full of spring rain

a cellar full of spring rain

each spring, with the rains
comes the seepage, in the cellar:
        first just the walls
        get wet with
        the clean smell of skywater
        outlining the cracks
        that frost tried to pry
        through; but as a steady drumming
        on the roof begins
        to get on our nerves,
        and the drain, at the center
        starts a choking, throaty gurgle,
        the smell begins to turn
        sour, or rather, rank; and when the drain
        is full, a soft muddy layer of
        unwanted feelings comes up and covers the floor

upstairs the open windows are ushering
the strong scent of lilac across the bedclothes,
the softening rain is just a pleasant whisper
up here, where thoughts of spring's
renewal may sit in upholstered chairs
reflecting on the beauty of the rain;
        the light and air encourage
        thought and reflection,
        stimulate an ongoing
        conversation as to the merits
        of pumps and long wet afternoon
        kisses, indolent and purposeful--
        succumbing to passion's steady pleading