Sometimes rain is unkind. Sometimes it knows
how you feel and falls anyway.
This is the way of water,
drawing together the smallest pieces of itself
to surge and rush
and flood and spite. No,
spate. Higher ground is not an option.
Soil loosens, losing its grip.
Trees upend, end up
distraught in gushing ravines, angry streams.
Sometimes you wake to a nocturne, a storm
dancing on the roof, singing in gutters.
Sometimes the song wears you away
one syllable at a time. Sing it
if you can.
The rain may lift you in its careless hands,
pull you far from home. Sometimes, you know,
you need to be far from home.
is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2019), and has two poetry collections forthcoming: Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press), and Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). His work has appeared in many publications, including Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Potomac Review, Comstock Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and others. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.
