Hello . . .
The sounds of rain all night, sometimes beating the ground as if it were a drum, sometimes the tickle of rain falling into rain, rain on the canoe, sliding off its rounded shoulders, hiss of rain on the street where cars disturb its sleep, constant sound of water, a cocoon of water wrapping the tree's new green leaves in an embrace of drops, pulling the azalea flowers from their short stems, flaming colors scattered from the bush, slate blue sky revealed where there is no sunrise to speak of just less dark. And with the rain, wind, in torrents, in gusts, in murmurs, pushing the rain down, a bully nothing can escape, only its deep desire to be somewhere else, allows us to continue, even the trees tremble before it, knowing they can be broken. Water stands in the yard, flat blank mirrors, deep enough to hide the grass, to reflect more rain, and accept it, having no choice, except runoff, when that certain depth is achieved, from here the ditches cannot be seen, though by this time they are more like rivers carrying the water out into the bay, where it will dilute the salt from the sea, the bay tossing and turning in its shallow bed snoring, waves breathing in and out, more out as water is pushed back like a useless blanket by the north wind.
A black and gray morning, like an old photograph of some place familiar yet just enough strange that it keeps you looking to see what you recognize, the old neighborhood, a trick of shadow, the black dog running down the road. You see all that is not there as well as all the things you know, each tree in its season, the same truck rounding the same corner at the same time, the cane in its eternal dance, the streetlight still glowing, shedding orange light , the light swallowed up by the rain, each drop carrying its own little dot into the dark morning, dividing and diminishing it.
Rain in all circumstances, in the imagination, in its reality, we watch it fall and dream.
The sounds of rain all night, sometimes beating the ground as if it were a drum, sometimes the tickle of rain falling into rain, rain on the canoe, sliding off its rounded shoulders, hiss of rain on the street where cars disturb its sleep, constant sound of water, a cocoon of water wrapping the tree's new green leaves in an embrace of drops, pulling the azalea flowers from their short stems, flaming colors scattered from the bush, slate blue sky revealed where there is no sunrise to speak of just less dark. And with the rain, wind, in torrents, in gusts, in murmurs, pushing the rain down, a bully nothing can escape, only its deep desire to be somewhere else, allows us to continue, even the trees tremble before it, knowing they can be broken. Water stands in the yard, flat blank mirrors, deep enough to hide the grass, to reflect more rain, and accept it, having no choice, except runoff, when that certain depth is achieved, from here the ditches cannot be seen, though by this time they are more like rivers carrying the water out into the bay, where it will dilute the salt from the sea, the bay tossing and turning in its shallow bed snoring, waves breathing in and out, more out as water is pushed back like a useless blanket by the north wind.
A black and gray morning, like an old photograph of some place familiar yet just enough strange that it keeps you looking to see what you recognize, the old neighborhood, a trick of shadow, the black dog running down the road. You see all that is not there as well as all the things you know, each tree in its season, the same truck rounding the same corner at the same time, the cane in its eternal dance, the streetlight still glowing, shedding orange light , the light swallowed up by the rain, each drop carrying its own little dot into the dark morning, dividing and diminishing it.
Rain in all circumstances, in the imagination, in its reality, we watch it fall and dream.
Rain on Tin
If I ever get over the bodies of women, I'm going to think of the rain,
of waiting under the eaves of an old house
at that moment
when it takes a form like fog.
It makes the mountain vanish.
Then the smell of rain, which is the smell of the earth a plow turns up
only condensed and refined.
How many years since thunder rolled
and the nerves woke like secret agents under the skin.
Brazil is where I wanted to live.
The border is not far from here.
Lonely and grateful would be my way to end,
and something for the pain pleas,
a little purity to sand the rough edges,
a slow downpour from the dark ages,
a drizzle from the Pleistocene.
As I dream of the rain's long body
I will eliminate from mind all the qualities that rain deletes
and then I will be primed to study rain's power,
the first drops lightly hallowing
but now and again a great gallop of the horse of rain
or an explosion of orange-green light.
A simple radiance, it requires no discipline.
Before I knew women, I knew the lonely pleasures of rain.
The mist then the clearing.
I will listen where the lightning thrills the rooster up a willow
and my whole life flowing
until I have no choice, only the rain
and I step into it.
Rodney Jones
This morning we all know the lonely pleasures of rain, and are still not so far removed from drought that we don't welcome it and consider it a blessing.
No comments:
Post a Comment