Mike Bayles Poet Narrative

Call for a Rain Poem

Sunday morning, and it was still.
as I walked barefoot through the loft
gray clouds lingered outside my window.
It was late October already, and I asked
where time had gone. My chest ached
as I bore the weight of life
and put on a robe to warm me.
I turned to my emails and the internet
like a long-lost friend while wondering
what the day would bring.
Last week strangers gathered in front
of the grocery store and talked about weather.
Some said we needed more rain, and some
said they had enough of summer.
They all agreed the year was passing.
They longed to talk about younger days
but I said time is never lost.
Now on Sunday morning it was still
as I walked through the loft.
I whispered to myself as autumn
sat in the next room. I looked
outside to see leaves were turning colors,
thinking O how I love to hear the sound
as rain patters leaves. I always have
but the leaves will fall.

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