The Falling of Cold Rain
Inside, I listen to rain beating.
But there was no staying dry
for the woman on this land before me
in cabin of hewn logs
spent and weary after a day
of moving rocks
willing potatoes from the soil
Longer ago before her,
girls, at fourteen
wandered and moved with their clans
fished at nearby dunes.
In shelters of hide, pines,
they could not have been glad
at the dripping of bone-chill rain.
And even now
rain pours upon fleeing refugees
drenches mothers who hammer gravel from stone
and makes cold the scratched-armed, spine-bent children
who gather beans for my chocolate.
“The rain falls on the just and the unjust,” Christ said.
But it does not fall on me.
Writing Prompt. This poem is about privilege. What do you have that others don’t?