finally, it rains. i rise in the dark to let the cats in, move
last night’s laundry into the dryer, change sheets
where the babe has soaked herself. her body an ‘x’
at the center where we sleep, where she sleeps
now, the lull of rain a lullaby, a sweet wet kiss
on dry dry land. last week, fires everywhere,
buildings burned to the ground. plants limp
in their pots though i try to remember to water them
each day. the last of our three cats comes to the door,
his old body damp with rain. he purrs at my feet
while i rub him dry, then trots to his dish like he’s done for
fourteen years of mornings. before i can bend to fill them, it
stops. the rain, i mean, it stops. gray goes azure, palm fronds still
on their trees, patter on the tin roof slowing and then silent, gurgle
and yawn of a babe in the other room, stretching her solid body
from ‘x’ to ‘i,’ then calling out for me to help her rise.
March 13, 2009 at 9:13 am
Lovely–so wet and sweet and motherly.
March 13, 2009 at 12:56 pm
beautiful