What must it be like
to be a raindrop
rappelling from a cloud
to land God only knows where

piercing the air
with its falling,
turned into breathless beauty
by some fickle
flirting light beam.

Bearer
since eternity
of liquid life.

Someday I think the paper in my life
Will swallow me up
Or gulp me down... whatever

And all this writing, thinking, swea
tWill come to naught but a lump
That ought to be composted;
However

It won't be easy, for you see
There really is a lot of me or was
Till these bills, songs, sonnets
Organized

And agreed to pulverize
To whittle down this clown
Who worries them so

Until a modicum among the type
Is just one last unnoticed
"Yipe!"

"Is that you, Janie? I dialed once before,
But the line was still busy. Who's minding that store?"

"We need gas-money to Arkansas, where my mother's in jail.
And my live-in's ex-boyfriend is hot on our trail."

"You don't have my gIasses? I wonder who does.
They've been missing since Easter, when that's where I was."

"I'll leave my son here while I teach Bible School.
He's banned from his class -- such a judgmental rule."

"The deadline was Monday for this month's newsletter?"
"Why didn't you warn us? You've got to do better!"

"Help! My ESL student has misplaced her keys.
If she comes by, just chat -- she speaks Japanese."

"Poor old Mrs. Jones' car battery just died.
I'm late for a meeting; she's waiting outside."

"The bulletin's not printed? You've had all day.
What have you been doing while we were away?"

I am from trees, from black curtains of rain
moving toward us across the railroad tracks
from the dense, sweet smell of cow feed,
from the snake across the barn path
waiting, wanting to scare us

from hands bloodied by setting hens
who, with sharp angry beaks, protect
the warm eggs beneath their ruffled feathers

from a world where I hated the geese
who nipped, hissed, and flailed their wings,
hating me back with a pure holy hate

from happy goat kids squirming under each arm
as springtime-tender honeysuckle tips
melted into their nibbling mouths

from onion sets meant for garden planting
but eaten instead
'neath an all-seeing cedar

I am from picnics under silent pasture hardwoods,
from puppies and kittens born harum-scarum

from little animals scurrying unseen through night-lives
inside my bedroom wall, falling with grunts and oooffs
when their scrabbly feet outran them

I am from asparagus-fern-and-rosebud corsages
pinned on scratchy piano recital dresses

from giggles with girls as we leapt and climbed
on big eternal patient rocks behind the barn
that centered the world I am from.