The rain woke me
tapping on the window
reminding me of a boyhood friend
I never had who’d toss gravel
against the glass until I eased
myself out crept to the edge
of the porch roof & shimmied
down the walnut’s rough trunk
I did that a few times even
without the prompt
someone might be out there
it was worth checking
& something always was
I’d hear rapid footsteps on the lawn
a rustle in the compost pit
I’d climb into bed half an hour later
with dirt on my feet & grass
stains on my PJs breathing hard
pull the blankets over my head
& listen to the blood drumming
behind my ears
I like the memories and feelings evoked here, and the aerial-map-like quality of the image.
There is something indeed haunting about this poem. Sort of a cross between Tom Sawyer and rural mischief. A spray of rain or sleet does sound a lot like gravel on the pane. I personally would have eschewed the tree shimmying for the front door, though. One could be thankful, however, that their weapon of choice was not toilet paper in the trees.
I hate to say this, but that’s a sweet poem. I think so much about the brother my son never had. He’s always throwing gravel, but I’m not sure at whose window.
I did that a few times even
without the prompt
That’s fun, with the picture and all.
I love this poem.
Yes.
I agree with prior comments — both haunting and sweet.
Apropos of nothing, I was just walking on the Rivanna Trail, and on the way back, I briefly saw a Great Blue Heron. Even glimpsed from a distance, it was breathtaking — an immediate reminder of why the Indians considered them sacred.
marja-leena – Hey, you’re right – it does look a bit like an aerial photo, doesn’t it?
Joan – Well, it was probably from Tom Sawyer that I got the idea of friends signaling to each other that way. But our remote location and my loner nature meant that I didn’t really have any frineds like that. We had strict bedtimes and my parent’s bedroom was adjacent to mine, hence the subterfuge.
Peter, dale – Thanks for commenting.
David – GB Herons have more than a bit of the prehistoric about them, don’t they? We’re only a mile from a small river here, so occasionally one will fly overhead.
Prehistoric, yeah — a reminder that birds really are the last of the dinosaurs.