When the glory of fall has passed, I still walk, often in the rain.
I have heard about how rain affects people in different locations differently; some are downright jubilant about its coming. I wonder if living in the soggy southwest of Canada (/ northwest of the U.S.) would dampen their enthusiasm.
Walking in the rain
“… the rain … is pouring down, humming and tapping the floor. … It is getting fragrant. I am barefoot, dancing, jumping and running madly.” – Rizawa F. Syeda-Kazmi
Trees writhe, kowtow to squally air
rain beats tantrum gusts
races down roofline, puddles dance
the forecast—walk later, not now.
I leave between sobs
last tears damp and curl my hair.
Sky is soon weeping again
we are deluged in her woes
my hooded anorak
listens to the wet complaints.
Rain’s ally, the muddy Nicomekl
has claimed the flood plain
mallard couples glide where yesterday
they waddled through squishy grass.
I press on, blurry-eyed
needing wipers for my glasses.
Front steps glisten. Shake the misery
off leaden coat, hang it by the fire
and recall, incredulous
desert story of rain celebrations
where men drive to ditches, jump in
dance crazy, open-armed when sky drops water.
© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)
First published in Time of Singing – Volume 40 Intermezzo, Fall 2013
This post is linked to Poetry Friday, hosted today by the one-and-only Jama, at Jama’s Alphabet Soup.