After the Rain

Opening the Door
Opening the Door, photo by Joseph Hesch

After the rain, shoulders hunched
and face clenched into a fist,
you punch your way through
the west wind. It undresses you
with your clothes still on,
stabbing and chilling your skin
like you’re bare-ass in the twilight.
Your eyes open wider after you splash
through a puddle that’ll pickle
your feet in their leather jars unless
you find a warm shelf to rest them on.
Red-shouldered black birds spin their
motorboat wings, tailfeather rudders
yawing this way and that, nattering above
the whole fuss of clothes and shoes
and the cars that spit in your face
as they pass. The same face Mother Sun
wraps in a smile, your sweet companion
in this westward walk to tomorrow.

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3 thoughts on “After the Rain

  1. I like the honest and straightforward composition and wording in this piece Ha! “Bare-ass in the twilight,” indeed! My favorite part actually is the mention of the red-winged blackbird, an image very familiar of late as I have been seeing one each evening as I leave work. Your words have familiarity and always remind me of home here in the northeast. Thank you, Joe.

  2. The rain is so recently familiar but I miss the red-winged blackbirds as I haven’t seen them since moving to the high desert. Their larger all-black cousins have chased them away. I like “the puddle that will pickle your feet in their leather jars,” and the redemption that arrives in the form of Mother Sun. 🙂

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