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
Nothing has changed since then;
the sound still makes me feel
to be here.
© 2000 Christine Klocek-Lim
this is real nice. i have a number of memories of rain as a kid. the biggest one is hearing the rain hit the tin roof on our trailer and trying to fall asleep.
oh to revisit a happy place from childhood to discover it unchanged.
Andrew, thanks!Ruthanne, I know exactly what sound you mean. The roof over the swing was made of tin; I love that sound. I’m glad this poem reminded you of that.Eric, yes, exactly. And it doesn’t happen often; even now the place is different from what I remember. But the memory is still there.Aurora, thank you!
🙂 i love that you know/use my real name and not just “its_baxter.” makes me feel special
Ruthanne, I’m glad. You’re very talented. The least I can do is use your real name!
You’ve captured the haunted gray textured mist of rain and renewal that is most becoming and inviting for the reader to fall back and bathe his creative zeal in.
Nick, your comments are as lovely to read as your poetry/prose. Thank you.
Just read this now! Lovely!Sangeet
Sangeet, thank you. I’m glad you liked it.