POETS’ CORNER: ST. PATRICK’S DAY

15 Mar POETS’ CORNER: ST. PATRICK’S DAY

A Green Rain
The rain itself is not green
but it falls for hours,
soft and penetrating
like a massage for sore earth muscles.

I am not out in the yard
but standing beside a window,
hands deep in my pockets
watching gray winter

turn green, weeps in pools
as pungent dirt cleaves,
birds like notes
on musical branches.

I’m tempted to step outside,
let the rain wash over me
but it’s still a cold green,
shivers rising from a place

deeper than my pockets,
fingers counting in the dark
how many sweet peas possible,
how many hollyhocks.