A Memory of Rain

It's just me
and the slow,
warm,
Louisiana rain
on my small upturned face
in the front yard
of Granny's house
in the country.

Just me and the rain
on the aggregate driveway
of river pebbles
and smashed shells
so rough there are thousands
of tiny puddles
splashing each drop.

Me,
rain,
roughness
and the scent of wet pine needles
in drifts beneath the trees
where the rain
falls
quiet.

The creak and slap
of the screen door,
and she is there,
towel in hand,
with the smell of supper
on her clothes.


MJO
5/13/11