Of Rain and a Memory
For Ella Z.
Big Bright Beautiful Life By Laura Hansen How could anyone who loves rivers not also love the rain? rain is the pot filler, the garden hose, constantly replenishing. Today, I need to make poems with my hands, tear them from magazines, from ragged flowers in their final bloom, petals drooping, dropping. I remember sitting by the river the day of her funeral, flower petals drifting downriver like confetti, like a bride's bouquet. Today the rain strips the last of the dahlias of their petals, scatters them across patio and into puddles, bright bold colors race into sewers, run along ditches, scurry to the river. See them move and weave, a Mardi Gras of color, a mad last dance. How could anyone who loves rivers not also love the rain? I am flower after rain, a river strewn with flowers. Am I so hard to love? How could anyone who loves the mother not also love the child? Do you even remember my name?
Today’s poem is one that surprises even me. Each reader will make their own meaning of it as is so often true of art.
Yes, how could you not love this river - this rain!