by Amanda McLeod
Spring Rain
Last fall’s dried leaves quietly snapped
and crackled on the forest floor,
yes, like cereal in milk.
I knelt, placed my ear
to the earth, and listened.
A rain too light to feel
was falling, faintly popping
against the brown and brittle leaves.
I held out my open palm. Nothing.
But the ground continued to speak
and a moist loamy scent lifted
in the air. I inhaled, raised myself up,
and soon the drops came fat
and fast enough to touch.
Ann E. Wallace is Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey. She is author of the poetry collection Counting by Sevens(Main Street Rag) and has previously published work in Feral, Huffington Post, Wordgathering, Halfway Down the Stairs, Snapdragonand many other journals. You can follow her online at AnnWallacePhD.com and on Instagram @annwallace409.
Amanda McLeod is a coffee aficionado and nature lover based in Canberra, Australia. Her work can be found in many places both in print and online, including The Big Issue and Meniscus Literary Journal. She’s usually outside when she’s not working, but if you can’t find her try Twitter and Instagram @AmandaMWrites or her website amandamcleodwrites.com.