Record Rain Fall 2018

 

I woke up in a puddle of tears.

It has been raining for months.

 

Ganesh,

the god of break-ups held open the door

and I stepped inside-out

to weed my little garden again.

In the wet salty soil

the weeds came out easily.

 

I ran out into the rain

and the sight of the Riverside train

made me lurch inside.

And then it rumbled and lurched back,

just me and the track

and rusted empty cars on the Buttermilk Trail.

 

Paw paws on the muddy path

so ripe

the juice ran down my arms

big seeds in my mouth.

 

This is my body given to me.

 

So I keep working with my hands,

bearing witness to my blues

in this thrashing season of tropical storms

and endless rain.

 

Back on Rocky Top

the creek behind my mom’s house

has sounded the same since I was a kid.

The rocks are the same shape

and the water flows over them the same way.

 

Every year the heat fades

and the last cicada sings.

Those wise Hearts a Bustin’ crack open

their red cases revealing drops of bright blood throughout the forest.

 

These are the sweetest empathies.

 

Do the fall flowers feel pain as they bloom?

Their beauty quenches my sorrow.

Peeling back the layers that once made me.

 

And quietly the gift of solitude comes riding in on a northern breeze and the last laughing crickets.

 

Poem by Merenda Cecelia

Art by Peter Sugarman