The Rain -- Written 2/2005

I've found more poems
today
discarded and in
old heaps of
guttered piles
across
my room

than most
write in
a lifetime

this place
is a sanctuary
to paper

to the word

I throw nothing
away—
everything sits
and waits
for me to find
it
months,
decades
later

I read poems
of my friend
john
dead two years
now
listening
to tom waits
drinking red wine—
three candles
and
a piano
accompany
me

frogs
outside
make their
unique noise
and the wind
blows slowly
my blinds
until they bow
and scratch above
my books
the painted
awning

let us talk awhile
in silence
and remember why
we came here
why there must be something
somewhere that matters

why we collect back to
back in groups
to stave off the
November wind

why we have babies
who smile
baby smiles
we once knew

my back cracks
on the chair
and I love you
mom
I love you
dad

a little rain
never hurt no one

but what is left
is song
is the word

and the rain