My neighbor says we had a she-rain
and I think: skirts, oath of water, declaration
of green, crocus opening, my mother, birth.
Not the virga from miles away— false promises
dispelling into dust before ever reaching earth—
but layers, slips, fiesta skirts, steady sheets.
My mother, once a girl of stream, shower, downpour,
deluge. Skirts, sparkled with sequins, ruffles, and lace,
as we slip into our dancing feet, chance inside the silver shindig of rain.