First Rain (A Concrete Poem)

The

Rain

Falls early

This morning,

As I tiptoe down

The stairs in thin socks

And my nightgown. And the

Last stair creaks, as I step on it,

And the house sighs with the wind.

And the hot air from the heater rattles,

Rattles against the vents. But I tiptoe on,

Breath held, as I pass the silent kitchen, into

The living room, to the big window, where I press

My face eagerly against the cold glass. And I can smell

In the air that cold, earthy dampness that is the first rain,

The first rain of the year, soaking into my lungs as I inhale,

Though the window is shut. The wooden boards on my deck are

Soaked dark brown, and a fine gray mist hovers above the earth.

And the eaves of the maple trees outside drip, and drip, and drip,

Sodden with the storm. Outside, hidden birds are singing, singing

With the song of the rain. And the rain falls down in sheets, the

sound swelling and sinking, swelling and sinking, like the roar

Of the ocean far away. But even though the first rain is

Cold, and incessant, and sharp as ice, I know that

Winter has gone. Because the first rain means,

Yes, I know, the first rain means,

That it is spring again.