august rain

“The sky is white like a piano key,”
Said I, contemplating the irony.
”Wouldn’t you like to walk on that sky with me?”
But her eyes were a different color.

Oh, mid-August rain,
You fall on me supple and strange.
I’d never seen a firefly until I saw mid-August rain.

Her photo keeps the dust off my piano.
Her sweater keeps the things off my chair.
Her notes that she scribbled they have their own drawer.
And I lie on my bed and stare.

”The sky is white like a clock face,”
I say as I’m checking the time.
My mind has already left the room,
But my body’s a little behind.

Oh, mid-August rain,
You fall on me supple and strange.
I’d never seen a firefly until I saw mid-August rain.

”Yes, the sky is white like a soccer ball,”
Said the boy to his dad on the grass.
All is wool sweaters and tufts of hair,
Eating sandwiches.

Yes, the chimneys are poking their heads up
Out of rooftops and thinking it’s strange
That they can stick their tongues out and catch a drop
Of soft, tasty, mid-August rain.

I’ve never seen a firefly until I saw mid-August rain.

Words and Music by Michael Johnson
Harmonies by Leslie Tillotson
© 1991, Zubsongs, Ltd.