afternoon poem, september 29, 2015



The rain comes today at a steep angle

Stiff lines of it

White and constant, as if it is not obeying gravity

But some assigned purpose and aim.

As if it is coming not out of the west

But out of the past

Carrying with it the scent and air of kitchens and porches

Tobacco, bacon and woodsmoke

From ninety years ago


It consoles me, somehow

As I try to listen

To men talk of horses

And women of some newborn baby

Who might have died today.



Copyright 2015

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3 Responses to afternoon poem, september 29, 2015

  1. A // W // F says:

    The rain makes me contemplative, too… (& I think we’re both standing under the same shower).

    Beautiful stuff here … I mean that. Thank you for sharing. 🙂

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