A Last Rain Song
by Temple Cone
Lightning doesn’t send rain, but beguiles
Its fall, lightning the Lucifer to those angels
In anguish at Shiloh or the Somme, bodies torn,
The dying left afield overnight. A storm
Anointed them, easing parched throats.
Else it meant to drown the world and lost heart.
“That’s nothing,” says the editor. “Every time it rains,
I get batches of rain poems, some in praise, some complaints,
And they always arrive on days of the clearest blue.”
Into chinks in walls, into eyes of the dead, sluices
Rain, and your heart, which never has felt
The water’s touch, longs to welcome those devils
When they knock at your bones like a door,
Begging you, at last, to admit their wild uproar.