Barbara J. Hamby

August Rain

We are having a misty, drizzly morning—most welcome after our long dry spell. A poem I wrote sometime ago comes to mind. I’ll put it at the bottom of this piece.

I hope we won’t have the usual rash of auto accidents that follows a dry spell when the rain makes the oil on the streets slick. Why drivers in this climate don’t remember that, is beyond me.

It seems as if I’ve spent most of the day flitting around from chore to chore, trying to decide what needs to be done first. I start one thing, see something else, and switch to the new distraction. I’m lucky to get anything completely done.

The closets in this apartment have folding metal doors that don’t seem to adapt to the settling of the rooms, so that one or another is always out of kilter. Yesterday the handyman was here to change an outdoor light bulb and fix one set of closet doors. Later, I discovered the “fix” threw the adjoining set of doors off and it won’t open now. He’s supposed to bring a new toilet seat to replace a broken one in one bathroom, so I’ll have to get him to fix the closet door then.

These closets are unusual in several respects. The clothes don’t hang on a rod; instead, they hang on a curved lip under a shelf. Therefore, the hangers go in backwards, which taxes an old brain, but is probably good stimulation for it.

Here’s the verse I promised:

    August Rain

Rain’s cool fingers stroke
August’s brow. Crackling
forests embrace her soaking
salve. Pain soothed, rebuilding
begins. Green spreads,
swallows charred remains.