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

11 thoughts on “Rain

  1. 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!

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