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I Thought It Was You
I thought it
was you
turning in bed—listening
I know
it is just the rain, heavier.
First I’ve heard
in a long time—
breathe deep.
I rest easier.
Happily.
Floods?
I doubt it,
if so
we'll cope later,
in due time.
Poems on the topic: relief
Poems on the topic “relief” on Poets.by.
What Rain Is For
The last three summers, as she recalls them,
Her heavy-clay bit of earth opened hexagonally;
Into the depths she stared, seeing dry darkness
So desiccated, she fancied worms and millipedes
In despair had decamped, seeking other worlds.
She poked at crevasses with her stick, finding bottom
Well deeper than twelve inches. Not knowing
How to garden in any but a rain forest, she
Attacked books and websites for some scheme
The budget could be stretched for: shade cloths,
Raised beds, huge-log hugelkulturs, keyhole beds.
All were possible, but her hands, old, worked
In fits and starts; her money allocated elsewhere.
Now she startles, looking at her night sky, so steeped
Minna XXIV
We blew a luminous confusion of thoughts
Upon the silence of our souls,
Staining it to little, weeping tints.
Our hands pressed serpentine pain into each other
And stroked it away to twilights of relief.
Our lips shook before the tread of coming words,
But closed again, finding no need for them.
The Junk Man
I AM glad God saw Death
And gave Death a job taking care of all who are tired
of living:
When all the wheels in a clock are worn and slow and
the connections loose
And the clock goes on ticking and telling the wrong time
from hour to hour
And people around the house joke about what a bum
clock it is,
How glad the clock is when the big Junk Man drives
his wagon
Up to the house and puts his arms around the clock and
says:
" You don't belong here,
You gotta come
Along with me,"
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