What the Rain Does

by krstaten

I’ve got a lot to learn about poetry.. Because I don’t write poetry as often as I should (or as often as I would like to), and I share it even less often, and because I’m apprehensive about posting my own poetry publicly, I’ll make the first poem of my own be this older one from a few years ago so that if it’s unforgivably terrible I can at least defend it by saying it’s old and I’ve grown as a writer since then. (Whether it’s unforgivably terrible or not, I’d like to think since it’s old that I really have grown as a writer since then.)

What the Rain Does

The way it melts on the tongues
of the grass, or shatters when
it hits the glass of the window
and forms a hundred clones
that fall together past the rails
of the balcony, each one alone

The way it forms a mist on tin
rooftops kissed with a sun shower’s
mutters or blessed by a cascade
that will run down the gutters

It soaks into my skin, licking
into every pore, screaming:
“Wake up!” Useless flesh becomes
alive more and more

It tickles my toes, decorates
the roses in the garden to a
photogenic pose; falls gentler
on the spider webs that
in the morning will look new
beside the morning earth bathed
and glazed with dew.