Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

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The east side brushed by us.
A lot of rain poured down, that’s all.
It wasn’t long until the sun came out,
shining on the long, wide, wet trail left in the wake of the sweep of the storm.
I made a cup of tea, hot and sweet, and walked out onto the front porch.
Everything everywhere was wet and shining: the green of the trees,
the gray of the asphalt road,
even the dusty-red brick of the porch.
I lifted my head to look at the sky,
radiant in its cobalt blue.
Only two hundred miles away,
people were pulling their dead
from flooded streets.


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I write poetry because I have something to say and poetry is the only way I know how to say it. I want my voice, however lost in the crowd now, to be heard.