“To write in the Northwest is to write about rain: to make a joke of it, to find something in it that will make you feel superior, to hide it in poetry, to assert plainly its positive effects” (Laurie Ricou).
Rain, rain, rain. It’s everywhere. Always talked about, always mentioned. A drained but still dripping cliché. I smell the rain and know that I am home. Transcendental and ordinary, it is a necessary condition of living on the West Coast, a reality better embraced than endured, “a presence rather than an event,” as Ricou goes on to say in The Arbutus/Madrone Files.
here is my rain file, my hiding it away in poetry:
is periods dropping from the sky,
falling onto pavement
with violent punctuation.
It is the periods of life spent
diving for cover,
damning the absent umbrella.
Weighted under and waiting out
The worst. Is not over.
More falling to come.