Thursday, February 7, 2013

Real Rain

Prosy poem or poemy prose? You decide.

Middle of the night stirs to hear the rain on the roof
After so long it surprises me
Not a thunder-rain or a wonder-is-it-there-rain 
But a Real steady splish sploshing and pitter pattering
I sleep away and wonder the wheres of January snow
Slip awake again and not expecting rain
Yet still as real and still no thunder
The uncanny silenced Kansas thunder
Remembering when I first realized
That in other places it rained without
Booms and lights and storm chasers
Tornado watches and wind that tears the leaves
In books is rain that falls without these things
We sometimes got a quiet rain but never Real
Just sprinkles, sudden showers or mists in the dark
How odd for it to rain without the shake of thunder
No other shoe dropping from the sky
Do not showers always draw up thunderstorms?
Woke again at wake-up-time and still it really rained
A strange comfortable cloudy darkness
Wishing for a cozy listening all day long
Recalling green and droughtless England
And a lush wet Kansas spring right before a brutal summer
When I stared at the world as though just three days old
Workday called my name and rose and went and still it rained
Soon out of mind until someone asked
And someone mentioned only mist
It made me sad to hear it gone

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