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.

02/16/2009

Posted on 02/16/2009
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