Rain Writing

All night, tree-lash,
marionette spider, bulged shadow
dancing shapes of torqued limbs against the window.
April, in his iron crown, leans on a nimbus,
widens half-hail payloads against our shingles.
Groaned arguments of rain icemelt
through oaken curls. The ten plagues of sleet
are rehearsing in the hedge, darkening
their moans into spirituals. Something tries
to escape from my pen: a black translation.
Nothing does.

And afterward, in peeking moon
the slapped leaflets convalesce
like new crystal thrust up from a cavern–
life, green-hardened
and thriving, neat as print.

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This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , by A. Miller. Bookmark the permalink.

About A. Miller

ALEX MILLER JR. is a staff writer for The Curator and the co-author of A Bow From My Shadow, a collection of poems written in dialogue with Luke Irwin. His essays and poems have appeared in The Conversation, Transpositions, Pif, The Curator, The Denver Syntax, Lake Effect, and ken*again. He is an adjunct professor of Western literature at Gordon College in Wenham, Mass., and high school English and Rhetoric teacher. He lives in Beverly, Mass. You can follow him on Twitter: @miller_jr.

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