By Richard Jones
Rain falls on the tin roof like buckshot, teaching me something about peace. It’s late April and I imagine a prophecy about a rich harvest of wheat, grapes, and olives from an ancient orchard. I want the rain to tease open the seed of my heart, to nourish the little flowers of the mind so they’ll blossom and grow, but nothing is happening. The house is still. I’m just sitting here in my old armchair, a book in my lap, my eyes closed, listening. I am the same bootless man I was before. So I go outside and the hard rain soaks me, soaks me and blesses me down to the bone.
Richard Jones is the author of many books of poetry, including Country of Air, A Perfect Time, King of Heats, The Blessing, and Stranger on Earth. Editor since 1980 of the literary journal Poetry East, he curates its many anthologies, such as Paris, The Last Believer in Words, and Bliss. In 2020, he will publish his 100th issue.
www.RichardJonesPoetry.com
www.PoetryEast.org
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