Up North in September
the rain arrives in wind-whipped sheets
and tidal waves transformed into beaded droplets
streaming from the eaves, small torrents
pouring from rain gutters, and solitary drips
falling from fence lines and railings –
a percussive symphony on the roof,
the music of ten thousand rain sticks.
I close my eyes and savor the sounds
that will soon be replaced
by the whispers of wet snow
falling in cottontail clumps and fragile single flakes
forming small heaps that become a blanket of hush
draped across my yard.
In spring the blanket begins to unravel,
drip by drip, those drips becoming
notes in my hymn of hope
for signs that winter again
is releasing its hold.
- Carolyn G. Healy