After Rain

By BRIAN SIMONEAU 

The wind comes warm as breath
and stirs me like laundry
on a line. Then it’s gone. Life
weaves itself together
from next to nothing;
it’s all these moments
I want, to take them in
before they’re taken away.
A patch of blue breaches clouds
the way green comes to winter
and the black of a raven’s
something I can hardly stand
the beauty of: unshadowed
or itself a shadow
untethered from things. It coasts
across the opening sky
on motionless wings
as if it too notices
a ray of light threading
its way into the world.

 

 

Originally from Lowell, Massachusetts, Brian Simoneau graduated from Amherst College and received an MFA at the University of Oregon. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and their two daughters. His first book of poems, River Bound (C&R Press 2014), won the De Novo Prize.
After Rain

Related Posts

opulent room 1

Modest for a Dictator

IRINA HRINOSCHI
They were executed in winter: Nicolae Ceaușescu, and his wife Elena, who was also shot, but in people’s minds this was secondary to her being an insufferable pseudo-intellectual who loved fur coats. And their children, Nicu, Zoe and Valentin, spared during the 1989 Revolution.

white mailbox on the side of a road

A Road, the Sun

CAROLYN KUEBLER
The warmth of the sun, her skin warming up too. Yes, this is it, she says. I have always been and will always be this way. But what way is this? Is it happiness?

A tree growing in a bucket. Twisted branches spiral upward from the large green basin the tree sits in. It's a sunny day in the woods.

Ugly Trees

HEATHER E. GOODMAN
We have a really ugly sugar maple in our front yard. Yard is a euphemism for dirt and weeds. Dirt is a euphemism for clay and rocks. Weeds is a euphemism for invasive species and exhaustion. But we love this ugly tree.