The Rain Speaks Endlessly
a little juvenilia
March is So Lonely
March is so empty even the moon dreams alone. Flowers hide themselves inside stale winter branches while the rain speaks endlessly, begging for someone to listen to him. March is so lonely, even the oceans feel numb and the sun battles greedy clouds while I lay beside myself waiting for spring to grow. -03.1988
Sunday afternoon’s relentless rain made me think of this oldie that I wrote in high school. I stopped myself from editing any of it since that would ruin the time capsule-ness of the sentiment. I can see what doesn’t “work.” I notice the ee cummings-esque bent in the imagery.
Yet to change anything about this poem now would be like editing my high school graduation photo so that it resembles the 50-year old me more than the 18-year old me forever captured in a perfect rectangle.
Like a photo, a poem is a representation, a rendering, but not the fully detailed blueprint of the person who created it. Just as a single spring, even a lonely one, is only a finite phase passing through us on its journey through endless time.
Nothing about you needs editing!
Your writing is so brilliant, Angela, at any age! 💚