March rain

It’s raining.
Downspouts gargle furiously
around frogs of ice.
The barn cat listens & licks her pregnant belly.

It’s raining, the first warm rain of spring.
Sap rises, & the green nibs
where bulbs will write
their deathless names in the air.

It’s raining, it’s pouring.
Worms poke through the muddy ruins
of once-grand palaces of frost.

It’s raining.
Under the bark of a log,
the ant queen resumes her slow march.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.