Rain 2023

I was about 10 years old,

and my birthday wish

was to ride in the back seat of my father’s car

as he drove on a rainy night

so I could watch the rain

falling on the glass.

In my 20s, I was sailing out in the ocean

several miles from shore,

when a steady breeze

whipped up quickly into a gust of rain.

Before us appeared a cycling, spiraling waterspout

that disappeared in the rain as quickly as it had appeared.

Living in San Francisco in my 30s,

I felt misty rain chill my skin to the bone much of the year.

Each gray day brought the yellow line of the highway

Into rhythmic moments of light-filled saturation.

And, the patterned clothing of Chinatown warmed my soul,

and sent my heart dancing along the sidewalks.

In my 40s,

I would drive across the state for my job,

working with artists in all weather, in all months.

One night, in the rain, on a mountain road, my headlights went out.

I think to sleep in the car and continue the trip in daylight.

The radio tells me that two men have escaped a prison in this area.

How smart is this going to be?

In my 50s, I pull weeds after a storm.

The rain has loosened the ground’s hold on the roots.

An obsession of mine is to pull grass growing in the gravel of the driveway

and these invaders appearing in beds of iris.

Thick worms 5-6 inches long have been breeding in the soil beneath the gravel

and writhe around as they are disturbed by my work.

In my 60s ,

I study Japanese woodblock prints of rain.

Sheets of rain fall against people in the rice fields.

Parallel lines white against gray strike houses and gardens.

Figures lean into its force and move with haste,

seeking safety in a distant warm light.

In my 70s,

I curl up in bed with a good book,

listening to the rain pound on our metal roof.

It is comforting to be warm and free,

mixing words and sounds,

not needing to be anywhere else.