by Charlie Morgan
smelling the rain, i grinned. it's coming.
rain, the Ringling Circus coming to town.
light tapping on our shoulders and heads,
scrunching our necks, Mallards on a lake.
bums around here still ask for a dime,
inflation refers to a flat tractor tire.
the crops down, those yet to be planted;
how's ol' Topsy in her bulwarked stall
getting by with that shankpiece attached?
and is she eating right, productive?
i tell Mama, i can smell the rain.
she grins, says yes dear, she too.
smelling Mama, the rain and competing
for a place in her heart and world,
i lean back.
smell Mama's happiness.
smell Jesus in the rain.
by the age of six i wanted to be Errol Flynn.
Posted on 02/16/2009
Copyright © 2019 Charlie Morgan
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Joan Serratelli on 02/16/09 at 05:15 PM|
I enjoyed this read- a sweet rememberannce of being young. Vivid imagry enhance this story-like quality piece. Great work!
|Posted by Maude Curtis on 04/01/09 at 05:11 PM|
Ah yes, being a farmers daughter I too have learned to smell the rain. Nice read thanks for reminding me to keep my head in the clouds. It's prettier there.