A Prediction of Floods
It is raining.
A hint of winter in the April air.
Flowers they say, will come,
and if you look close, you can see
the buds on the lilacs,
the first flickering forsythia.
But for now, it rains.
with more predicted,
harder, deeper grey, for the afternoon.
Your bones feel the rain,
a dull ache,
not enough to make you cease
the everyday tasks before you,
only enough to rob those tasks
of their joy.
Your ears hear the rain.
The pitter-patter losing its romance
after hour after relentless hour
It dulls the music of the wind.
Voices get lost in it.
Your heart too, feels the rain.
There is, it seems, a hole there,
a scar unhealed, like a rent roof
where the rain comes in
and even your safest places
become cold and clammy.
The afternoon forecast is for more of the same.
Floods are predicted,
flash floods, a rapid rise and fall of rivers,
a covering of the low ground,
a drowning of spring’s promise.
Forecasts are iffy things.
More black magic than science.
But your heart feels.
Your heart knows,
they are right.
About this poem
The photograph was taken in an abandoned factory in New Hampshire.
The poem can be about rain, or about our own hearts anticipating and feeling pain.