Golden Gate Morning by Marianne Brems

Golden Gate Morning by Marianne Brems Fog spills over the ridge like a cauldron. Thick and soft as goose feathers, swaddling a bridge not ready to rise from sleep beneath its hidden towers. The majestic turned docile inside a shroud of gray. But within seconds, like an apology for obstruction, the north tower leaps throughContinue reading “Golden Gate Morning by Marianne Brems”

It’s Raining Again by Lynn White

It’s Raining Again by Lynn White The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh. She’s tried. She’s really tried. She’s wept tears of frustration. She’s wept tears of anger. She’s wept tears of sadness that flow from the mountains to the sea. It’s the vowels she finds hard. And the consonants. And the mutations. And the wayContinue reading “It’s Raining Again by Lynn White”

The Igloo by Matthew Sweeney

The Igloo by Matthew Sweeney Outside the igloo he waited for an invitation to come inside. There was no knocker, no doorbell. He coughed, there was no reply. He crouched down and peered in. He felt the warm air from a fire pat his cheeks and ruffle his hair. Hello he said quietly and repeated it.Continue reading “The Igloo by Matthew Sweeney”

All my rains by Rose Mary Boehm

All my rainsby Rose Mary Boehm IWarm rain in the Caribbean,giant bathtub abruptlyturned over by a tropical giant.Rain that hurts. Rain that washesaway topsoil, flattening crab claw,golden trumpet and scorpion orchid,leaving the waxrose gasping for air,fills all dents in the hotel patios.Tennis courts become square lakesof reddish, sandy mud. Every passingcar’s a drencher. Take offContinue reading “All my rains by Rose Mary Boehm”

Rain by Frances Shaw

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.Continue reading “Rain by Frances Shaw”

Rain in the Hills by William Haskell Simpson

Rain in the Hillsby William Haskell Simpson Were I the rainComing over the hills— I should be gladThat my cool fingers could ease the little fevers of dusty     water-holes,And caress curled leaves of the cottonwoods. The herd,Pawing, bellowing, would let me quiet them,Standing in fresh pools by dusty water-holes– If I were the rainComing over theContinue reading “Rain in the Hills by William Haskell Simpson”