Rabbit Rain
Lotus Granger loves rabbit rain,
The light, quick patter barely touching ground,
Shy drops nibbling hands and face.
From the edge of the field he sees his wife
At the window, head haloed by the lamp
As she sits to receive the evening.
He has walked a lifetime in this field,
Where his father’s last workhorse lies buried,
And where he hid geodes for luck as a kid.
His wife is in the parlor tatting linen crosses
For the mission field overseas,
Her nimble fingers seeking God.
He too has a mission, here in this field,
Under rabbit rain, for to love a thing truly
Is to make it whole, like a furrow plowed straight.
The moon-colored cat walks the fencerow,
A mole in her mouth. Good, he thinks.
One less varmint in cultivated ground.
He plants a memory now, the grandson
Lost in a barren desert war he can’t explain,
Stalked by phantom grief in the deepening dark.
Eighty-five years old. Survived D-Day,
Saw Auschwitz liberated, beat prostate cancer,
But he never imagined such a thing.
Maybe after all he doubts that a memory
Loved truly is made whole over time,
Yet a tough man’s tears can hide in rabbit rain.
This field was meant for the future, to carry
The family seed. A dubious sacrifice
Does not impress an old man kicking dirt.
In the longest hour, after rabbit rain, he watches
Fireflies turn to shooting stars, burning out
Above the orchard in silent benediction.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.