Something Happens

The rain is cold as it is falling down
With smell of rotting leaves on the ground
eleven thirty am grey.
The days grow short.
The rain wets my shirt.
The cold grips my back
and drips fall from withering trees.
The neighbor went South and I gather the paper;
I don’t mind the beating rain
its drum, its swoosh below the tires,
At the corner of the street
Hardly anyone drives by at this time.

Soon something will happen.

I noticed a longing and then I heard
Even the field crickets’ chirp has grown
Slow in the damp and the cold
Soon to sleep in the mud, in the mud.
I will make afternoon tea,
Waiting for the return of the sun,
Will I begin again to scrape the moss
From the roof, will I climb a slick ladder?
Will I remove the wet work shirt
Soiling another, just to clip the chill?
Something will happen.

The tea kettle whistles shrill and long,
A semi rides by on the wet street;
The sun returns to cast a shadow on the lawn,
Where the leaves have not yet fallen,
And my mind is calling for the honey.
I was missing you when the sun
Returned, and my chores started calling me back.
You will come back on the weekend.
The red tail screams overhead,
The sun gets even brighter and the ladder is sure to dry.
I switch into a tee-shirt as I sip my hot sweet Earl Grey.
Sitting at the window’s ledge, where
Steam rises in curled vapors, soft
Remembrance of your kiss
Of your strong hands rubbing my feet.

Looking up to sunny skies
That fade so soon each fall,
Climbing up the ladder that leans
At the roofs rim, tossing the tools up
and climbing around the legs;
With my short slender fingers and my dull putty knife,
I cut the roots of the moss under the shingle.
Gentle, don’t scar the tile, and careful, now sweep.
Standing sure not to stumble,
The black mastic smeared on my stick,
Smooth I place it over the scars I made.

My heart beats, moving to a faster pulse
For all these sounds and sights I hear:
As the chimes clink:
Immeasurable sky, temporarily gentle,
Reminds me that something will happen.

The sun is bright, I wipe my brow;
Overhead the Blackpoll warblers
Wing their way, on the eastern path south.


About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Something Happens

  1. m.a. wood says:

    Reblogged this on Teach and Reach and commented:

    I never finished replacing the roof tiles.


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