In other years,
Those times, now hastily sealed in envelopes,
Memories of those days of rain:
An incessant November after a scorched Halloween,
Or cold February rain, broken by snow,
Gusting loud and clear that afternoon,
In another damp celebration,
To the beat of scowling wind and staccato raindrops.
.
Winter’s pulse traced across every window.
.
Then, rivers of emerald velvet,
Concealing cobbled dreams,
The electricity of fish,
And the hard lines of trees
Against soft winter skies.
.
We dreamed of things outside us.
.
Now, we wake in the crisp, tingling night
Like the sound of a pin snapping,
Where it lingers on the cold edge of dawn
And stretches under the long fetch of winter sun.
.
Summer’s long pause distilled and bare.
.
These days trudge on,
Held fast under shadowy chill
Where summer escaped,
As we wonder if it ever left.
.
We will remember this time.
Shaken Rain 