01 02 03 Prone to Wander: Winter Rain 04 05 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 31 32 33

Winter Rain

34

The cold winter rain, pounding
against the farmhouse roof, woke me
too early this morning.
The horses’ clopping in front of the house,
pulling their buggies—both sounds
tangled with the other, becoming one.
I pulled the down comforter around my
head and closed my eyes,
and was eight years old again.
Not in Amish country, Ohio, but
nestled in my own bed in Memphis, Tennessee.
My parents and brother and sister,
lulled to sleep by the steady rain, but I,
locked in my own mind, and armed with a flashlight,
filled pages of the blue spiral notebook
which I kept hidden under my mattress.
Hours passed and I filled the lined pages with stories
—stories awakened by that winter rain,
 pattering hard against the roof,
So many years ago. 
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