After the Rain


Bring on the sweatshirts, I’m sooooo ready for fall! We got a huge downpour on Saturday morning, and this poem is what came out of it in my brain… The formatting is rather atrocious (darn the built-in formatting features I can’t seem to get around!), but… well, here you go.

After the Rain

A whisper, really,
so faint it might be a dream;
not so much a presence
as an absence—
of water in the air.

First a heavy, soaking rain,
like a long, slow drink of iced tea
with a sprig of mint
on a creaky front porch swing—
feet-up relief
after a long, smoldering summer,
burning, suffocating,
smoking, choking in the
never-ending ash and ember.

But now at last the rain has come,
and lingered—
not a quick summer shower
that only teases
and makes it worse:

sputtering,

rumbling,

stomping around

pretending

for five minutes,

just long enough to turn the chalky powdery dirt
into brick-red, carpet-staining glue;

and turn people into steamed asparagus
walking around,
overcooked and limp,
wilting—

no.

At last,
a real,
long,
lazy-morning,
back-to-bed
late-summer drenching
that wrings all the water from the sky,
hour after happy hour.

And when the dripping’s done,
dry air remains—
not cool,
not even close to cool,
but different somehow—
breezy and light,
fresh and clean:

a kiss of fall,
a nip,
a hint,
a whisper—

of joy
and pumpkins
and laughing children
and trees ablaze
and smoking leaves
and bonfires and s’mores
and sweatshirts and jeans
and turkey
and Christmas

all

just

around

the bend.