"It’s Raining, It’s Pouring"

Written By

Lynn Guttmann

       light is falling

                            on my gingko's saffron fans

                            and gently layered Japanese maples

                            the sun’s alchemy

                            turning

                            jade and purple lace

                            into wisps of fire


       I curl,

       buttoned like a potato bug,

       into my aged canvas chair

       contemplating

              the haze sauntering across the lake’s valley

              stretching along the undulating urban hills


       I burrow

       into my bed

       listening

              to the dark

              endless rain,

              a backbeat on the skylight


       singing to myself

              rain, rain

                     go away


                            my child’s self,

                            stands on tip toes,

                            next to mother’s bed

                            unable to escape

                            her wordless

                                   love me love me

                                   don’t leave

                                   me

                            pebbles inside

                            my sandals


                            her endless winters

                            cold, fiery worries,

                            like warbling country songs,

                            or unfurling blues riffs

                                   your father’s

                                          working late

                                          again he’s at the office

                                          more than home

                                   your father’s

                                          paying more

                                          attention to her

                                          girls - not

                                          ours


       as my maples’ tight origami buds

              await the joy of blossoming,


              shy crocus and pale cyclamen

              emerge from the soft ground


              and Schubert’s Trout spills

              from my living room

              into sunlight -

                     rippling through sparkling waters

                     plunging into turbulence

                     rising into tranquility


       I lean,

       my elbows against the deck,

       absorbing spring’s new-borne warmth

Lynn is an accomplished visual artist. When her fibromyalgia became more intrusive, she retired from her job as a municipal engineering and community development director. She writes poetry to express frustration, isolation, and anger that is tempered by her love for nature and family. Her work has appeared in the literary journals Parentheses, Wordgathering, Cleaning Up Glitter, Kaleidoscope and Life Lines.

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