Rain won’t let go this afternoon.
Palm fronds wear the water like a glove.

They do not wave: there is nothing to wave at.
They shudder, they sag and spill—

and then a ghostly bark announces,
to any female who can hear it,

not that the worst has washed over us
but that a tree frog has had enough

to drink at last, down through his skin,
and waits for love to come to him.

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