When the rain arrives in February,
it begins in the dark of morning.
We wake to move from our beds,
one by one, to stand at the window,
as if a stranger were approaching.
We stare over the field,
past the soft-footed sound, toward
a fine ivory thread of dawn along the ridge.
Wet filaments dive toward us,
piercing stitches through a swath of gray,
glinting in the children´s eyes.
I search the ridge for a source,
someone to thank, finally,
for this release, for this morning show
of silver light across the sky.
The Spoon River
Poetry Review, volume XXXV number 2.