The Poet

He is old and he waits for the rain,
sitting on the old wooden rocker on the
back porch, screened in; he pulls on
his rubber mud-encrusted boots and
slowly stands to push open the screen
door. Walking down the gravel path,
he zips up his hunter green parka and
snaps the flaps shut up to his neck. The
wrinkles there vibrate as he swallows after
taking that first sacred breath that
begins this ritual of walking forest and field,
marking his way by fence post and
animal feces. The new grass is already drunk
on rainwater and the dappled sunshine of
the day before. He walks for two hours but
the rain is waiting. He turns around when
the sun shows itself above the pine trees, and
sits by the fire with coffee, then tea
and toast, and as the toast pops from
the electric toaster the rain begins to hit
the roof and cascade down the gutters.