by John Dorroh
The Meaning of Rain
Only the desert remains. A rolling desert.
–Federico Garcia Lorca
And, now, this is the first chapter of the end
when the earth begins to emerge, come forth
once more. The desert opens like a hand,
the palm with its many ridges, lines, creases
of age. Tonight, rain pummels the roof,
tapping as my grandmother’s nails did long ago
on her porcelain tea set which housed the image
of a family playing in what I always took to be
midwestern wheat fields. Just hours ago,
clouds moved in, uncharacteristically
dark. For once, the sky seemed threatened.
On these rare days, the willow and oleander
open for the first time. Quail and dove scatter
for home. I press my open hand to the ground,
understand the meaning of rain the way one can
only after living in a desert. Feel the vibration
of thunder. Know where I am now is where
I was meant to be. This time, this place.
See my shadow stretch out over the dark earth.
Lift my hands specked with dirt and oleander
beans, knowing it will be long before the return.
Laura Stringfellow writes both verse and prose poetry, holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry, and hails from the muggy strangelands of the Southern U.S. Her work has appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Right Hand Pointing, Clementine Unbound, Déraciné, Neologism Poetry Journal, Coffin Bell: a journal of dark literature, Ephemeral Elegies, and The Lake. Read more of her work at laurastringfellow.com.
Although born a writer, John Dorroh also enjoys art: the first photo-essay he created called “Beauty Confined” included pictures from the zoo in Columbus, MS. And of course, several poems followed to add another layer of depth to the topic. It was an unplanned magic. A lifelong traveler, Dorroh’s poetry has appeared in Selcouth Station, Os Pressan, Feral, Blue Moon Literary & Art Review, River Heron Review, El Portal, and many more.