Winter

A Prose PoemThe rain comes, spilling from the dark clouds, in the morning, the afternoon, or at night, sometimes on the mountainside, or on the other side of the valley in a transparent curtain of grey. Water covers the ground, the asphalt streets, cement sidewalks, grass; raindrops falling into the puddles; water in the ditches between the road and the fences of old wooden posts and wire. Drops collect on the brown and tan leafless branches of the deciduous trees and shrubs, and run along the stems and fall. It rained all day, all afternoon my body seemed to pull at me with a tension, an élan towards the sky.Creswell, Oregon February 1994Visit my site at sites.google.com/site/eroticaesthetic