Rain
by Frances Shaw
When in the night the storm rises,
I will run before it
To the long shore,
And there await the arms
Slanting toward me—
The strong gray arms of the rain.
And I will lean on them,
And be enchanted,
And whispered to
By the soft insistent voice
Of the rain.
PHOTO: Lake Anterselva, South Tyrol, Italy, by Giampaolo Mastro, used by permission.
POETRY and PLACES 