Rain, Rain, Rain
Then the rains came, bustling in the birches.
The rain spilled over the green-grey spoils.
It sat hunched in its jacket.
And I said to the rain, I said rain,
which caught its attention,
its grey eyes sparkling like sea-gems.
And I said rain rain rain;
you’re really something, like empires falling
or coins in a fountain. Like angelic feathers.
And the rain collapsed to its knees, quietly weeping,
wringing its hands for thousands of years;
until the dry places went under the weather,
when, in my birch-bark boat, I sailed
over the high hills of the world.
Flight Into What
We leave perpetually,
runaways from injustices,
fugitives from love’s quarters,
escapees from life’s asylum –
I think you get the picture.
We’re not searching for anything,
it’s the Earth, it keeps turning.
The skies are dragging us along.
Like chickadees, we take flight,
skittish and untrusting.
We ride away on our blue horses.
We’re monkeys who fly,
our loved ones long gone missing –
and we shall not find them.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His latest book, Boxing In The Bone Orchard is available now via Frontenac House.
DIY MFA 