Rainy Day
All morning the wind
shudders the windows, pushes
a curtain of water against
the glass. Outside
each creature cowers
in its shelter. Inside I
listen to the furious
lake and the death-cries
of the wind while words
advance
one by one
across the lined pages of
my notebook, its blue covers
thick and velvet-soft. There is
something desirable
about rain and
the solitude it brings. The possibility
of hours of un-
interrupted reading; an entire day
devoted to shaping a poem, carving each word
out of the void or simply plucking one
out of the hundreds lined-up at attention
like good little tin soldiers in my brain.
Later,
the sky
spent of its passion, serene
after thunder, I walk
into town, a book under my arm,
wet grasses brushing
against my bare legs, crisp air
and vivid blue sky
welcoming
all the creatures out
again --
a red-headed woodpecker
who dives noisily against
the dead high limbs
of a sycamore tree,
its curling bark exposing
the whitish-brown trunk;
a cedar waxwing, his cinnamon
crest darting
in and out
of a drenched thicket
of red mulberry leaves, quick
bursts to snack on flying
insects. I
prefer a cup of coffee, a slice
of peach tart at the Pumpernickel Inn.
