So the spring rain is pouring down outside again

soaking all the fresh new leaves
and rich bark and ground
just as it did when I was a child
down the cabin on the swing
in the damp
while mom cleaned inside and dad hammered
up that new plywood.

I’d stare out over the creek
at the feathering spots of the raindrops on the surface,
at the tiny flowers blanketing the small clearing
in purple-white-wet.
Nothing has changed since then;
the sound still makes me feel
and happy
to be here.

—for Joe

© 2000 Christine Klocek-Lim