The original version of this poem, titled rain, was written sometime before 2005 (my post-mom brain doesn't remember dates). Two days ago, while hauling four truck loads of rock through two thunderstorms and a too-close tornado (see cleansing truths), my fascination with storms was reinforced, again. This morning I stumbled across rain, and it seemed appropriate to revisit the poem. It has a few revisions, but not many, and a new title. Enjoy Missouri rain, and a slightly altered image excerpt.
Once a part of White Girl Can't Fancy Dance, I'm still not sure with which collection it best fits. Any ideas?
Once a part of White Girl Can't Fancy Dance, I'm still not sure with which collection it best fits. Any ideas?
photo from morgueFile by click
Missouri rain
Missouri rain
when the sky decides
to be green
to pretend to be grass
to swirl clouds, like
the merry-go-round in Queen Anne park
where the big kids push
so fast
we can’t get off, and need to
and cry when we finally fall--
a five minute storm
until the sky clears
and we can see
empty swings
on the other side.
© Erin Croley
Missouri rain
when the sky decides
to be green
to pretend to be grass
to swirl clouds, like
the merry-go-round in Queen Anne park
where the big kids push
so fast
we can’t get off, and need to
and cry when we finally fall--
a five minute storm
until the sky clears
and we can see
empty swings
on the other side.
© Erin Croley
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