by Donald Ford
3/05/2007 / Poetry
It starts as gentle footsteps.
The rain begins to fall.
Its rhythm and its beat
Like whispers in the hall.
We can't quite make the words out.
Is it saying things at all?
I'm sure it's talking to me
A word or two will fall.
I press my ear to panes of glass.
I want to know its secrets.
Then suddenly the sound gets loud,
The water falls without regret.
The words run all together;
Like a train that's chugging endlessly.
The new sounds I don't want to hear
I think the rain is mad at me.
But then as quickly as it started,
The rain begins to quiet down.
I'm glad it stopped its yelling.
I'm glad it found its calm.
I have been a storyteller for over four decades. I love the craft of writing and enjoy painting poems from pictures. When I am not writing and teaching, I am sharing answers to prayer stories. I am published in six major zines, which includes a Q&A column for Sew News Mag. out of Golden, Colorado
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