The storm makes everything wild-tossed
Like an unmade bed—
Or the one who just rose from it.
The rain causes all the plants to grow
Outside their man-made boundaries—
Tall grass and brush poking out and up
Like unkempt hair.
Wind-blown branches,
Smudges of mud, leaves, water—
The streets with unwashed face
Despite the recent shower.
So the city awakens
Slowly, drowsily
After stormy slumber.