The rain is coming down. I’m reminded of the ceaseless drops of my childhood. Not a light on in the house. I put on the kettle. The kettle was not a fixture as the rain was. And the rain falls. I wrote poetry as a child. It flowed down my arm and onto the page. Sometimes as a trickle, teasing. Sometimes in a painful flood. And the rain falls. The cadence teases. A bubbling push to the surface that won’t break. The kettle whistles. The pour gurgles. The aroma wafts. Turn on a light, silly. Warm up your hands. Listen to the sound of the earth’s nourishment and feel the satisfaction of the soil. You’re not there. It’s not then. I chop bacon. The pan sizzles. Cutting the colors of the earth into the pan I feel the words stirring. When is the last time this happened? Seven years ago? Twelve? Longer. And the rain falls. Start a fire. (There’s no more wood.) Start a fire. (But there’s no more wood.) Start a fire.
I light a candle.