Spring Rites

In the darkness the cold rain drums steadily on the roof,
loses a beat ... steady again, and louder now,
attacking the snow with violence, lacing it with mud ...
coming down on a late March wind.

If you listen you can hear its icy lament
in the creak of the iron gate,
in the rattle of the window pane,
in the singing of the wires.

With wild abandon the rain hurls itself at
the last remnant of snow.
Dirties it ... uglies it ...
breaks its hold on the muddied earth.

If you listen you can hear its laughter
in the splash of the puddles,
in the crack of the ice. The brook is running again,
babbling with a rainsong, promising spring.

Tomorrow the sun will shine a little warmer.
Like the sap, the pulse will quicken a little.
We will think about planting seed. And our boy
will ask to wear his sneakers.

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