Remembering Mom
Joan Baranow
Rain. Real rain
so that I ran out to close
the car windows.
At first the ground
sipped it with a strange
sound, like rubber-soled shoes
skidding on a gym floor.
I had been asleep, almost,
not believing it could rain here
in July
though the sky
had been filling itself all day
like a child carefully coloring
a paper sky with gray clouds,
which is how I now imagine it—
a child gripping a crayon
intent on his work
and then tearing it up.
And then, my mind
goes again to you
in the ground, getting wet.
