(March 2005) Okey-dokey, here’s another nice rain poem from The Sun magazine:
by D. Patrick Miller
I am not a body. I am the rain,
falling all over your house and
in the deep fold of the distant hills.
I cover the leaf, the roof, the field grasses
and the shiny street. A billowing wind
carries me through the swirling branches
and drives me against your window.
I strike and coalesce, fall and spill
into the soil and the swallowing gutter,
taking a wild ride to the sea.
Later the sun may draw me up,
but the clouds will lose me when
they let down their burden of water
again. I am not a body. You can
sleep to the sound of my falling.
All right. Lots to do today so I better get busy. But first I decided to add a new category to my morning entries: SINGING IN THE SHOWER. I’ll try to be honest, but often just start spouting out some incredibly goofy song before it even registers at a conscious level what I’m singing. If something as goofy as “Undercover Angel” ever comes out of my mouth, well, I might just have to lie that day.
SINGING IN THE SHOWER: Bonnie Raitt’s “Angel from Montgomery"
READING: Olga Broumas’s sexy poems
Listening to: the rain