Hello Friends,
As some of you may have already heard on Facebook, a minor catastrophe has struck this poem-a-day project. A fellow spilled his coffee all over my laptop that held all the poems and the schedule, and now the laptop will not turn on. As a result, your poems may not come as regularly this week — but I'm going to do my best to keep up. I do have a hard drive back-up, but it's 56 days out-of-date, so I am missing much of what I had prepared for Poetry Month. But let us proceed nonetheless.
I got rained on really hard this morning, so we're going to do an encore with one more rain poem today. This one comes from the September 1933 issue of Poetry magazine, but I know next to nothing about its author, Beatrice Goldsmith.
Enjoy.
Ellen
Said Constance, with the rain deep in her hair,
“This is spring cider, and the wind and I
Are drunk and crazy—O my dear”—her voice
Was full of rain and laughter, and her eyes
Were green and wild—“my dear,
I have known other kinds of rain:
Rain bouncing madly off my knees and toes
Into a lake to break its top like glass;
And then one day rain thin and cool and gold
With the sun out; and rain
Upon a certain sultry night like steam
That silvered all the grass and choked my throat.
But this”—her lashes, spangled, black and wet,
Shot up and made her eyes like mad green stars—
“But this, I tell you—” and her hands were cupped
Like small pale blossoms, petals spilling cold
White wine, “it was for this
The wind and I were waiting—we and spring.”
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