The Late Winter Rain

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Sleepily, before the morning dawn, mist begins the rain.

As I listen in the dark, ice crystals descend here

and there on the roof. Pitter patter,

then, in an opening of the heavens

the snow is washed disappearing,

a silent reminder

of the promise of spring

living in more than

our distant dreams,

as I pull up the covers enfolded

and fall back to sleep.

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

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The Meaning of Rain

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When it rains there are books that call to me, spending an afternoon with Frost, Dickinson, Rumi and Gibran.

And within our teacups whispers of your love for me. Why is it we are so quiet when it rains?

As is if listening becomes more important, as if the silence is sacred in our home.

I can count the raindrops falling, singing their softness, but even their fury

speaks of peace

in the comfort of our blankets

and the beauty of your face gently resting

as we both ponder the meaning of rain.

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2015, 2018, ancient skies

It Was 11:30 PM

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It was 11:30 PM when he made his last cup of coffee, stirring in the creamer while the rain pelted his kitchen window.

It was the wind that sent sheets of rain, lashing out in waves again and again. He was glad to be home.

It wasn’t much of an apartment but it was peaceful. Dimly lit, he kept only 2 lights on, like his father had taught him.

Should he read the paper? He headed for his chair. He realized nobody really read the paper anymore, did they? He decided instead to get out his travel book – the one on Ireland.

Someday he wouldn’t be working 18 hour shifts at the hospital anymore.

It was 12:10 AM when he fell asleep in his chair, the book still open on his lap, as he dreamed of a cottage by the sea. 

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies

In the Winter Rain

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Between the pines, where the rain is sometimes snow,

I find myself listening, as it falls

as the rain moves through the trees

a white flake here

and there

my spirit searching

quietly through the sky

and in the strange silence

of rain.

With my hood on, a prayer sent

having seen the beauty

deep within

the storm.

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies