Rain's Last Word
In Lamson woods
I cross paths
with a man hunched
under a neon
green umbrella.
It is raining
through the bare
canopy of trees.
Only a few birds’ nests
break the outpour
of drops. The man
with the umbrella
greets me
by barely lifting
his eyes & one
of his fingers.
Some leaves twirl
down around us:
decay & beauty.
Air shreds
shadow into mist.
Words of a poem
drop into my mind,
then scatter
like leaves.
The sky prays
cloud hymns.
A few stiff pines
are thinking
nor dancing nor
waving their arms.
The man with
the green umbrella
is a memory
in time. Rain falls
& holds
no grudge,
expressing no
grief as it cries.
Included in audio format in TelePoem Booth, Iowa
at PACE, Pottawattamie Arts, Culture and Entertainment Center, Council Bluffs, Iowa