We have two towering maples in our back yard, one of them just outside our bedroom window.
I woke up one winter morning to the gentle sound of rain, looked out the window and was greeted by a view of those glistening tree trunks. It was a scene that sent my imagination into overdrive.
I probably put some of my thoughts to paper that morning in the midst of shaving. They often plague me so that I have to pause and write, pause and write.
The end result in this case, a poem. Other times these scribblings end up in an envelope labeled "Bits and Pieces," possible fodder for future works.
But for now, this:
WINTER RAIN
All night it comes,
falling as quietly
as snow, trickling
down our green roof,
a soft song drifting
among the branches
of our dark maples,
trunks glistening
like the taut bodies
of stevedores under
the summer sun,
like sailing ships
tossing and leaning,
rigging creaking,
brass bells ringing,
greeting a new day.
© 2003
(From Chance of Rain, my first collection of poems - Finishing Line Press, 2003)
***
Today's word: trickling
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
I share that feeling, Hechan ... glad when it's winter rain, and not sleet or snow ... and I'm glad you found the poem a nice way to start the day. Oh, I have that trouble, too ... my fingers knowing the order in which letters should come together to form words, but sometimes falling short of their mission. But if the thought gets through ... that's the important thing here in our "conversations." And please don't worry about making "too many" comments. It would be awfully quiet here without them.
I'm glad, Featheredpines, that you like the creaking and groaning of big old trees ... as well as the songs of the pines ... a symphony of sounds ... even when they come to us as memories.
3 comments:
That's the kind of rain that you are happy it isn't snow or sleet.
I love the picture you have painted in this poem. I can see it. I always like the picture of a stevadores. My daddy was one on Lake Superior for a time, when he was young. I even like the word. In CA they were called "long shoereman" and that doesn't have the magic name to me. I guess one is inland and one on the ocean...as boat and ship--no matter the size, you navy people. Anyway...my kind of poem! Again...a nice scene to start the day. As much as we need rain with the fires, and as picturesque as your poem is, it makes me shiver...which isn't bad on a day that will be 94.
The kabatic winds racing through the pines are wonderful, but I sometimes miss the creaking and groaning of big old trees like the kind in your poem. Whatever the wind, whatever the weather, wherever I am - I love it.
I hope spelling doesn't count...I do know how to spell "longshoremen"...I think. Without a spell-checker, I'm never sure.
Rereading your poem, Bob, and I have a different feeling about it and the nostalgia hits, as usual. Featheredpines, you're right every place has its own beauty...think that's what you were saying...I enjoyed your poetic comment. I do wish more readers would respond to the poetry. It always strikes a chord..a different for each of us. I'm a fairly new comer and don't want to make too many comments on here, but can't always stop myself.
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