• Poetry: Rain


    by Harold O. Wilson

    Perhaps it was the high calling of the geese

    their voices dropped through the building clouds

    that woke me, the room still dark with morning.

    Or perhaps it was the wind teasing the old shutters.

    Something—an uneasy dream already forgotten—

    called me forth to stare at the shadowed ceiling.


    a wry smile, I checked my arms.

    They were as they should be.

    My legs?  They were complete.


    they slid easily from beneath the covers to sit me up

    and will my feet to touch the cold linoleum floor.

    I was not yet a beetle.


    tapped lightly on the window’s glass.

    Rounded drops reflected pearls of light that

    obstinate, held their place in stellar lock.

    In the downstairs hall the clock struck three.

    Cold and heavy with sleep the room pressed in.

    Then it was field filled with light.


    gold and purple touched each other in sympathy.

    Knee high in the meadow stream three horses

    swung low heads in my direction.

    A woman indifferent on the blue roan picked at strands of mane

    and fingered the bow and quiver slung silver across her shoulder.

    The roan nickered at my approach.


    washed across the window.

    Waves of wind and water swept away the jeweled drops

    and rattled the loose panes in angry thrusts.

    The dresser black against the wall asked for nothing.

    Only the jagged shadow of picture frames that cast

    square teeth on the cracked wall sought consolation.

    Then it was sand,

    water edged with blues and greens.

    A summer girl, her hair shining black with salt and brine

    bellied against the white topped spume.

    Thrown up against the swell, pubescent fire on water

    her arms flashed wet and sensuous in the sun

    and waved for me to follow.

    Rain, its anger spent

    caressed the panes in penitential bows, which

    squares of glass expressed no more of the world without

    than the capricious whims of nature’s mood.

    The wooden window

    framed square against the dawn

    gave no hint of light to come.

    Then it was Maroon Bells.

    Yes, Colorado.

    We stood in a parking lot. The lake behind

    mirrored peaks shalerose, yellow and violet.

    Her hair was blond, long and lifted by the wind.

    We held hands tightly against the future.

    Pictures were taken.

    The rain passed,

    the old house groaned for no apparent reason.

    The clock struck again and the stairs creaked though no feet pressed.

    The window blessed and pacified permitted the boney image of a tree

    to enter.

    The woman curled at my back sighed and rustled beneath the covers.

    I turned

    and touched her shoulder

    hot and alive in the cold room.

    Then it was now.

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