When rain is no longer rain, when what is left is only a puddle, the colour of the dirt around it, that sees the patch of unencumbered sky that still clings to it, the sky it does not recognize as sky, what then is left for the clouds to say? What of the puddle stained pink by the flowers around it? And what of the one stranded in the middle of the street, watching the flash of soles that hop across, the undersides of trucks that rush past, uncaring: is there a hierarchy of falling, of chance, of stilled rain? And what of the one just out of the shadow of that tree, where the woman stands alone, her eyes empty, her clothes wet with the failure of escape, all her longing pressed into the lines on her brow, ordinariness in her swallowed swear, in the line of her shoulders unable to hold up the grey sky? What of that puddle that looks up at her, the lady who wants to leave, the puddle that wants to follow her feet? What is left after the rain is no longer rain, after a reflection disentangles itself from a puddle that didn’t know how to hold it?
“What is left after
the rain is no longer rain, after a reflection disentangles
itself from a puddle that didn’t know how to hold it?” This whole reflection on life is beautiful
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Debi.
LikeLike
you’re welcome
LikeLike
A lovely bit of poetry … what is anything after it ends. A question for all of time.
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Helen.
LikeLike
The question is like asking what poetry is after the poem and provides a supple answer. It is the capacity to exceed precisely because it fails.
LikeLike
Thank you, Brendan. That is a beautiful response..
LikeLike
Thought provoking answers and yet invokes more questions.
LikeLike
Thank you 🙂 Glad it worked.
LikeLike
What is seemed ordinary may not be ordinary, for it may have a great tale to tell.
The poem did just that.
LikeLike
Thanks so much 🙂
LikeLike
Such poignant and unfathomable questions!
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Ingrid!
LikeLike
A wonderful meditation on rain, Rajani.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I especially love her seeing her reflection in the puddle that didnt know how to hold it. A wonderful poem.
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Sherry.
LikeLike
Now called “mud”?
..
LikeLike
What a contemplation!!! You have sculpted ordinary in a way only you can.
Have a creative weekend
Much💜love
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Gillena. Much appreciated.
LikeLike
After the rain, the puddles have much to say. A very thought-provoking poem!
LikeLike
Thank you, Beverly.
LikeLike
My kind of poem. Love the places you took us to. Life through a puddle. I think of it as a portal or oracle.
LikeLike
Portal or Oracle… sounds perfect. Thanks so much, Colleen.
LikeLike
This reminds me how the “after” in a traumatic event has its own grinding sort of pain, so different from the sharp intensity of a moment. That after can feel like there is and all there will ever be.
LikeLike
Absolutely.. thanks so much, Rommy.
LikeLike
I like the repetition in the wording of the questions. (Unanswerable as they are.)
LikeLike
🙂 Thanks Rosemary!
LikeLike