by Elizabeth Grant
I drove my little son to school this morning.
Packed satchel, unpacked amidst
our ritual kisses;
tussled hair; the eager voices in happy yawning.
Then I light-footed ran, as rain fell
in muffled hisses,
to my urban chariot.
It had been so hot; parched skies
aching for fluffed wet cotton
to soothe the sun lovers below.
The rain fell before my eyes
and into my slow, beating,
I stood in the memories.
I stood in memories of wet grass.
Trees sweet scented with life's sap.
Stung by the barbs of familiarity misplaced
I knew, through a saltwater sea,
that this is not home;
the rain not quite soft enough.
No mountain curves or lakes traced
upon this vision's gap.
So foolish to be held enthralled,
skewered, by another place.
As this rain falls I am comforted
by the cloak of banality;
needs drowned in the day's race.
A life promised but obscured in reality.
Drenched, I turn the key
and follow the day.