Winter Rain

We had 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