ALL Magazine May 2016 | Page 50

Seven Days of Rain

Seven endless days of chilled, pollen rain.
Everything smells basement damp by now.
This forced necessity to stay indoors - a forced birth of laborious thoughts
has made me think.
I'm tired of thinking.
Rain induces a recall of sounds;
your heart,
beating into my ear which lay so safely on your chest
( feeling safe being tantamount to shelter).
Storms bang walls I've tried
so hard to keep sturdy.
Every loud drop startles the days.
Clouds dressed like criminals
with gray crinoline width linger.
Had your voice been kind
I may have escaped them.
Now they lie in wait,
waiting for what, the spring?
Rain. Chill. Your choice of weapons when choosing your words.
Storms undo the inside of outsides.
Put the palm of your powerful hand
against my cheek.
Speak of kinder things.
Pull the sun away from the bad guys and save me.
Save us.
(© 2016 Cyndi Dawson)