Saturday, July 2, 2016

Rainy Night






In the not too distant past, I had an attic space where few sounds intruded, where I often went to write.

I became aware, one evening, of a tentative tapping on the skylight - rain. The scattered drops were, indeed, binding city lights to themselves, and clinging gem-like against the darkness.

I felt safe in that space, visualized motes dancing lazily in bright sunlight, beckoning, and I started writing.

What I wrote that evening evolved into a poem, which later found itself in good company in ByLine Magazine, and eventually found its way into Chance of Rain, my first collection of poems, all about rain, or its absence.

RAINY NIGHT

First few drops
spatter warily
on my skylight,
binding glimmers
of city lights
to themselves,
sliding them
down the dark
throat of night.


In this dim light
I am held safe
by an arid warmth
that eddies like
motes escaping
an attic book,
swirling, dancing
up a long stairway
toward that door
through which
the golden glow
of revelation
beckons me.
© 2003

Today's word: spatter

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