by tony baldwin
I awake at 9 a.m. to the sound of the rain
and can't get back to sleep again.
So I sit on the porch and watch the puddles form,
watch the black bird bathing in the rain.
Some would call this a portent;
Blackbird, grey cloud, chill teasing rain…
But I know better than to look at the future like that.
I don't look at it at all.
I have this day to listen to the rain
as it cleanses my world
washes it clean again.
Later on that day I find you blowing bubbles.
Like the bubbles in puddles I know that they are good.
They float away with the clouds, just wandering,
No place particular to go. And I can go too.
You say you find four-leaf clovers as we walk you home.
You share your luck. It comes off in your hand.
And in your lips
I feel myself going with the bubbles and the clouds
and returning with the rain.
Soldiers have been coming home for days.
Students are returning their books.
Much knowledge passes through these walls.
Many deaths for dollars have kissed this year.
But I can only die to myself time and again.
Today I only live to hear the music play,
to feel the wind and the rain coming down
to explore the world
whatever makes us
who we are
you and I
and wherever we can go…