Deep in a hot southwestern night
I’m haunted by the memories
that will perhaps leave peacefully
if I can give a name to each
of a thousand images of rain
a name for the driving lashing rain
that splattered on the windshield glass
in ever-changing circles and rivulets
and dodged the syncopated wipers
for one hundred turnpike miles
a name for a mist in early summer
that thickened on the canopy of pine
till droplets fell to darken and dapple
the paths which led around the pond
to the place we called Perch Cove
rain as verb to lavish or bestow
great buckets of rain so sudden
they absolve the layers of festering dust
and on a damp mid-summer night
break loose the clots of memory
and what name will finally satisfy
the weeks of late September rain
cold against your upstairs window
disquieting the inner cracks
threatening to freeze and split the soul
© 2014 Frank Kearns
